


The Labors of Marius

by synchronysymphony



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (But we love him), (just weed though), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, I think thats all the tw, M/M, Marius being an asshole, Mythology References, Partying, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 06:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18911113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronysymphony/pseuds/synchronysymphony
Summary: Every hero has his battles.





	1. The Eponemean Lion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gamesformay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamesformay/gifts).



> hbd chloe ily <3 have this fic from my library of unpublished stories :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nemean Lion

Marius is in trouble.

It’s late, and he really should be asleep, because he has an early class tomorrow and he can’t function well on less than eight hours of sleep, but he can’t stop turning the evening’s events over in his mind, wondering if he did something wrong, and if so, when. 

It had been a normal night; Marius had been translating a document and wondering exactly why German verbal morphology was so tricky, when Courfeyrac had come bouncing into his room and invited him to a meeting with him and his friends. Marius, not knowing what to do, had said yes, and had followed him out the door and all the way into the cafe two blocks away where the ABC Buddies (as Marius calls them in his head) had congregated. They’d walked in and been greeted cheerfully, since scary though they all are, the ABC Buddies have never been anything but friendly.

And that’s when the trouble had started.

Enjolras had been giving a speech about the evils of capitalism, decrying it as a shackle that must be broken for humankind to know peace, and all of his friends (except for weird, cynical Grantaire) had been cheering and nodding along. Marius hadn’t been; he’d recently read a book of writings by Hayek, Rothbard, Bastiat, and others of their ilk, and had been fully convinced. So, as soon as Enjolras took a breath, he had jumped right in.

“Capitalism is not the evil you make it out to be,” he’d begun, and launched off from there, going into a lengthy and (in his opinion) rather impressive speech defending the free market and the invisible hand, ending with the gorgeous rhetorical question, “What could be better than that?”

And then, gentle, kind Combeferre had stood up, adjusted his glasses, and calmly said, “To be free.”

Full stop.

Marius groans in his bed. It had been  _ awful _ . Everyone except Enjolras had made fun of him, and Combeferre had sung at him, and it had been so embarrassing. Marius hates being embarrassed, especially in front of new friends. He doesn’t regret speaking up, because someone besides Grantaire had to, but he does regret the fact that he’ll never be friends with these people, all the same.

Especially because of Cosette.

She hadn’t been there tonight, thank goodness— she was probably out saving puppies or something. But Enjolras probably told her everything, if she didn’t somehow know already through some sort of psychic twin bond, and she’ll laugh like the others and think he’s ridiculous.

_ Ugh _ .

Marius rolls over and plants his face in his pillow to stifle a groan. He’s just offended Cosette’s brother and best friends past all repair. He’s  _ never _ going to get her to notice him now.

—

It’s sometime during the middle of Marius’s Classics lecture the next day that he realizes there’s a potential solution to his problem. They’re going over Hercules, talking about his labors, and how he found redemption through his hard work. Marius isn’t sure what he thinks about this worldview, but in this particular case, he acknowledges that it might be useful. Work is good for the soul, right? Maybe he can find a solution that way.

After lecture, he practically runs to the library to check out all the scholarship on Hercules he can possibly find. There’s a lot, and it’s sort of overwhelming, but in the end, he picks up three books and takes them back to his apartment to pore over. There’s a lot he needs to study here, and a lot he needs to learn. He has a big job to do. 

—

“You’re going to do me a favor? Anything?”

“A labor,” Marius corrects. “And no, not anything. It has to be reasonable.”

“Hmm.” Eponine rests her chin in her hand, thinking. “What exactly is reasonable? Is forgery reasonable?”

“No.”

“Blackmail?”

“Also no.”

“Then, I know.” Eponine takes out her phone and begins to scroll through it, finally shoving it into Marius’s face. “Here, look at this. This is my favorite coat in the world… or at least it was.”

The coat in question is rather ugly, a faux fur lion-print thing with huge diamond buttons. Marius doesn’t think he needs the picture as a reminder; he’s seen her wearing it once before, and that’s enough to be burned into his brain forever. 

“What happened to it?” he asks.

“Montparnasse,” says Eponine darkly, that one word conveying all the wrath and betrayal in the world. “That son of a bitch told me it was too unfashionable, and he took it. It’s in his house.”

“And you want me to…”

“Get it back for me, yeah.”

“So you want me to break into a criminal’s house and steal from him, specifically against his will?”

“Yeah.”

Marius feels a little faint. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?” he asks weakly. Unfortunately, relentless Eponine shakes her head.

“I want that coat.”

“Okay.” Marius wants to slap himself; where did that come from? He hadn’t meant to agree at all. Curse his overly generous nature. “I mean, I mean…”

Eponine throws her arms around him. “Thanks, man! I owe you one!”

Marius doesn’t really know where to go from here. He nods, feeling particularly hapless (even more than usual, which is saying something for him), and leaves to go fulfill his horrible destiny.

\--

Often, Gavroche likes to hang around GameStop after school, yukking it up with his friends and gazing longingly at the copies of whatever overpriced and violent video game is on sale that month. Marius has never been to a GameStop in his life, but for this, he needs an expert’s help, and this is the one place he might be assured of catching said expert off-guard. So with great trepidation, he betakes himself to the mall and, after circumspectly checking his reflection in the tinted-glass window, pushes open the door and comes inside.

“Hello, welcome to GameStop,” calls a bored-looking employee from the register. Petrified, Marius can only nod, hoping he’s not being rude. 

He looks around the store, hoping that today isn’t an exception to Gavroche’s routine. That very well may happen; it would make everything that much harder, and be fitting, really. His luck must be holding up, though, because there, holding up a copy of Call of Duty and explaining its merits to his friends, is Gavroche. Marius slowly walks over, feeling horribly out of place. It’s surprisingly hard to approach a group of ten-year-olds.

“Hey, guys,” he says. “Uh… how’s it hanging in um, the hood?”

All four children turn to him with the same withering expression. “Who are you?” asks the tallest of the four, a girl with buck teeth and messy pigtails. Marius tries to look cool.

“I’m a friend of Gavroche.”

Gavroche doesn’t look impressed with this, but he’s too good of a kid to deny it. “Hi, Marius. What are you doing here?”

“I actually was hoping you could help me with something,” Marius says. Gavroche squints suspiciously. 

“With what?”

“An errand for your sister.”

“Which one?”

“Eponine.”

“Aw,  _ hell _ no!” Gavroche puts about fifteen times more sass into that one phrase than Marius could ever hope to summon in his lifetime. “I bet it’s something weird, like breaking into the police station, or stealing that dumb coat from Montparnasse.”

Marius rubs his ear. “Well, actually…”

“ _ Seriously _ ?”

“I’ll explain to you later?”

Gavroche rolls his eyes. “I guess I’ll see ya guys,” he says. “I better go help this fucker with his  _ errand _ .”

“Don't swear,” says Marius weakly. All four kids look disbelieving. 

“Did you just tell him not to swear?”

“Ooh look at me,” says the buck-toothed girl in a high, mocking voice. “I’m Mr. Marius and I don’t sweeeeeaaar!”

Gavroche snickers with the others, but then slugs the girl on the arm. “Aww, shut up. He’s just dumb.”

“I am not,” Marius protests, but Gavroche shushes him. 

“C’mon. Let’s go sit down and talk.”

Marius follows Gavroche out of the store, feeling ridiculous. Was he just bullied by a child? He’s so distracted that he doesn’t even realize where Gavroche is taking him until they’re in the food court, standing in line to Pinkberry.

“You got me, right?” says Gavroche. Marius unhappily pulls out his wallet.

“Yeah, sure.”

Two frozen yogurts later, Marius has explained the situation to Gavroche, and Gavroche is laughing his tiny butt off, practically rolling on the floor. 

“You’re shitting me” he wheezes. “You’re gonna do a favor for  _ everyone _ ?!”

“A labor,” Marius corrects. “And are you really supposed to swear so much?”

“Why shouldn’t I? No one else gives a fuck.”

Marius wonders if that’s sad, then decides he doesn’t care. He pushes away his melting yogurt (Gavroche immediately attacks it). 

“Can you help me with my Montparnasse problem?”

“Sure,” says Gavroche with his mouth full. “It’s gonna be easy. Montparnasse is a fucking idiot.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve stolen stuff from him more times than I can count. Also, did you know he got his ass handed to him by Cosette’s dad?”

Marius is not at all pleased to learn this information. If Cosette’s dad can beat up hardened criminals, who knows what he might do to awkward law students who haven’t been to the gym in approximately fifteen years? Maybe he should do a labor for him, too. 

“I can’t hand anyone’s ass to them,” he says. Gavroche blows a raspberry.

“You don’t need to, dumbass. It’s all about psychological manipulation.”

“About… what?”

“Okay, listen up, Freckle Boy. This is what we’re going to do.”

\--

Marius stands outside Montparnasse’s apartment, hand poised to knock. He’s been standing this way for the last five minutes, too terrified to make a single move. What if Montparnasse murders him? Or even worse, what if he decides to give him a makeover? Marius has heard intimidating things about Montparnasse’s makeovers. 

A sound from around the corner startles him, and he lowers his hand, heart jumping in his chest. “Gavroche?”

“What are you doing, you moron?” Gavroche hisses. “He’s in there, I know he is.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked Claquesous.”

“How does Claquesous know?”

Gavroche gives him a spine-tinglingly derogatory look. “He used the cameras. Duh.”

Marius doesn’t really want to know any more details. “Okay,” he says. “I guess I’ll do this.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Gavroche disappears back behind the corner, and Marius lifts his hand. This is for Cosette, he reminds himself. It’ll all be worth it in the end. With one last, deep breath, he knocks. There’s some rustling, some crashing, and the sound of about fifteen locks sliding back, and then the door cracks open.

“What?”

“Um, hello!” Marius tries hard to smile, even though his teeth are chattering together. “Montparnasse, I presume?”

“Whaddya want, dweeb?”

Marius has never heard anyone call someone else a dweeb outside of made-for-TV kids’ comedies from the 90s. It’s kind of hilarious. “I’m Marius,” he says.

“I know.” Montparnasse’s eyes narrow. “Did Eponine send you?”

“No-o… I just decided to come by.”

“Why?”

“I need your help with something.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t ask the others. They’ll make fun of me.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re jerks.”

“Why?”

It’s like talking to a three-year-old. Marius tries not to stomp his foot. “Stop asking why, just help me!”

Montparnasse grins. “Okay, sure. Glad to see you’re showing a little spirit for once.”

So, that was easy. Marius makes a subtle victory-fist. “Thanks. You see, it’s Eponine’s phone. I, um, I broke it.”

“You  _ what _ ?” Montparnasse looks genuinely horrified. “Oh, geez. Okay, come in. I’ll see what I can do.”

Montparnasse pulls back about five more deadbolts, and opens the door, waving Marius into the apartment. It’s nice, all black, dark red, and purple, of course, and full of some pretty goth decorations, but neat and spacious. At Montparnasse’s insistence, Marius takes off his shoes, letting his feet sink into the deep plush carpet. 

“Nice place you got here,” he says conversationally. “Do you have some water?”

Montparnasse turns to the refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of Perrier. Behind his back, Gavroche dashes in the open door, and quick as a flash, side-steps into what has to be the bedroom. By the time Montparnasse has turned around again, all is clear. 

“Here,” says Montparnasse, handing over one of the bottles. “Do you need a glass?”

“No, thank you,” says Marius. He doesn’t like sparkling water, but he supposes it’s just part of the price he has to pay. He unscrews the cap and takes a swig, trying not to wince at the sharp bubbles. “This is great, thanks.”

Montparnasse uncaps his own bottle, and drinks delicately. He sets his bottle on the coffee table (over a coaster, naturally), and holds out his hand. “Let me see the phone.”

Marius gives it to him. He hadn't exactly had Eponine’s permission to borrow it, and he figures he only has about half an hour more before she realizes it’s gone, so he really hopes Montparnasse is good with tech. Gavroche had assured him he would be, but who really knows?

This had all been Gavroche's idea anyway. He’d been the one to pick Eponine’s purse when she came into the cafe for a cup of coffee between classes, and the one to do  _ something _ to it that he’d insisted Montparnasse would be able to fix. Marius has no idea what, or how to fix it himself (he’s not the best with this sort of thing), but he trusts Gavroche because he has no other option. 

“Can you fix it?” he asks now. 

“Sure.” Montparnasse taps the screen. “This’ll take me fifteen minutes, tops. What’d you do to it, anyway?”

“I was trying to play Candy Crush,” says Marius, with his most hapless expression. Fortunately, Montparnasse buys it, and bursts out laughing. It’s almost a giggle, really, and it sounds like tinkling bells.

“You’re such a dumbass.”

“You laugh like Enjolras,” Marius points out, blurting in his nervousness. It doesn’t seem normal for Montparnasse to be laughing like that, and it’s giving him the creeps. Unfortunately, this only serves to make Montparnasse laugh more.

“Really? That’s a compliment. He’s pretty.”

“He looks like a blond you.”

“Well, you little charmer, you.” Montparnasse winks at Marius rakishly. “You’re pretty, too.”

Oh, this wasn’t what Marius had signed up for. He doesn't want to flirt with someone scary like Montparnasse. He looks at the ground and shuffles his feet, hoping Montparnasse will turn back to the phone and leave him alone.

Fortunately, he does. He starts tapping away, seemingly knowing exactly what to do. It’s good, Marius thinks-- he’s so busy that he won’t want to talk, and this frightening errand can be over as quickly as possible. Gulping down a nervous inhale, he tries to soothe his nerves with a long drink of water, only to regret it immediately when it goes up his nose. 

“Oof,” he says, valiantly trying to hide the carbonated pain. Montparnasse looks up from the phone. 

“What?”

“Oh, uh. Nothing.”

“Huh. Okay.”

Montparnasse goes back to the phone. Marius, unsure of what to do, stands rooted in place, taking tiny sips of water, until finally, about ten minutes later, Montparnasse grins and holds it up. 

“All fixed.”

“Thank you so much,” says Marius, tripping over his words in his haste to get them out. “I don’t know what I’d do if you hadn't fixed it. I’m pretty sure Eponine would have killed me.”

“Probably,” agrees Montparnasse. “And we can’t have that.”

“We can’t?”

“No. Whom else will I talk about linguistics with?”

“Combeferre,” stutters Marius, but then recovers himself enough to realize fully what Montparnasse had said. “Wait. You like linguistics?”

“I  _ adore _ it. I study dialects in my free time, you know.”

“ _ Really _ ?”

“Yes, really. We’ll talk about it over brunch sometime.”

It’s more of a command than an invitation, but Marius is okay with that. He scrambles to shake Montparnasse’s hand. “Thank you, thank you! And um-- I’m going to give Eponine her phone back now. But give me a call! Okay, bye!”

And with this, he runs out the door, leaving Montparnasse laughing in his wake.

When Marius gets down to the car, Gavroche is in there, holding Eponine’s coat on his lap and playing Pokémon. He looks up when Marius gets into the driver’s seat. 

“You took forever.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever. I got the coat.”

“You did,” says Marius, pleased. “And now Eponine will like me.”

Gavroche snorts and mutters something under his breath, but doesn’t deign to repeat it loud enough for Marius to hear. Instead, he holds up his phone. 

“Do you have any good music on here?”

Marius pats his pocket, even though he knows his phone isn’t in there. “How did you get that?”

“Picked your pocket, dumbass.”

“When?”

“Just now. Weren't you paying attention? Oh right, I guess not. Ha-ha.”

Idly, Marius wonders how Eponine puts up with having Gavroche for a brother. “I have good music,” he says, reverting to their previous topic. “Red Hot Chili Peppers, Backstreet Boys, Eminem…”

Gavroche makes a face. “I thought you said  _ good _ .”

“Oh, shut up. You just don’t appreciate the classics.”

“Says you.”

But in the end, Gavroche does plug Marius’s phone into the aux cord, and he ends up singing along with  _ I Want It That Way _ all down the freeway home.

\--

Eponine is so delighted with her coat that she doesn't even notice when Gavroche slips her phone back into her purse. She hugs Marius, faux fur tickling his nose, and slaps him on the butt for good measure.

“You’re a good guy,” she says. “Thanks, man. I owe ya one.”

“No,” says Marius, because that had been kind of the point of doing a labor for her. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on me.”

Eponine gives him an appraising look, but nods, and agrees, probably too quickly to be strictly polite, but that’s part of her charm. But when Marius gets home that night, he finds a Post-It in his pocket, with a phone number, a smiley face, and the word  _ Cosette _ written in purple ink-- a favor for a favor. Marius decides that this whole event had been worth it after all.


	2. Learn the Hydra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lernean Hydra

Feuilly loves comics. Bahorel, on the other hand, dislikes them intensely. No one is sure why, because he likes action movies, adventure novels, and even D&D. But for whatever reason, logical or not, he can’t pick up a comic book without making a hundred disparaging comments, and avoiding the library for weeks.

However, despite this quite drastic difference in taste, Bahorel and Feuilly love each other-- a lot. They’re always together, and when they’re not, they’re talking about the other as if they’ve hung the moon. They’re not dating, or at least Marius doesn’t think they are, but they do make quite the infatuated pair of best friends.

That’s why Marius isn’t surprised when Bahorel comes to cash in his favor, and tells him that it’s going to be for Feuilly. 

“I gotta impress them,” he says, wringing his big hands together. “Don’t want them to think I’m a dumbass, you know? Gotta show ‘em I’m more than just muscles and a pretty face.”

“Okay,” says Marius. “How can I help?”

“Ya know, um.” Bahorel lowers his voice to his version of a whisper (which would be the equivalent of anyone else’s speaking voice). “ _ Comics _ ?”

Marius nods, trying not to laugh. “I know comics, yes.”

“Well, I was hopin’... you’re a nerd and stuff, so ya probably know…”

“What?”

“Could you explain the Hydra storyline to me?”

“Oh.” Marius scratches his head. “Well, I’m really more of a DC guy, so…”

“Please?”

Bahorel somehow manages to look like a pleading kitten. Marius can’t help but take pity on him.

“Sure. I’ll help you out.”

Bahorel punches him in the arm, delighted. “Thanks, man! Thanks a fuckton!”

“It’s nothing,” says Marius, subtly massaging his arm. “I'll meet you tomorrow at the Musain and explain it? Say, 5:00?”

“I have lecture at 5,” says Bahorel. Marius makes a sound of understanding. 

“Ah, okay. So maybe after that?”

“No, 5 is perfect.”

“If you say so,” says Marius doubtfully. He’s never skipped a lecture since the time when Bossuet had to save his ass. Bahorel nods, and unfortunately punches him in the arm again.

“I’ll see ya!”

“See you soon.”

\--

Marius knows how to break into Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment. Not only do they keep their key under the mat, they also tend to forget to lock their front door, maybe because they’re always busy thinking about revolution, or maybe because they want to keep their home metaphorically and literally open to all. Whatever the reason, it’s a cinch to slip in while both of them are out, and steal into Combeferre’s room to dig through the box of comics under his bed. 

Marius is making a pile of comics that look like they could be Hydra-related, and bemoaning the fact that it’s so massive, when he hears a light footstep behind him, a high-pitched war cry, and the swish of something flying through the air. Then, something hits the back of his head, hard, and he whirls around, wailing in pain.

“What the hell!”

“Oh.” Enjolras lowers the kitchen pan in his hand, looking only slightly embarrassed. “Sorry, I thought you were a murderer.”

“So you decided to murder  _ me _ ?”

“No, if I had, I’d’ve brought the cast-iron skillet instead.”

“Still,” grumbles Marius, annoyed. “At least give a man some warning next time.”

“But then I might get murdered.”

There's no arguing with him. Marius decides to let the subject go for now. “Is Combeferre home?” he asks. 

“No, it’s just me. Why?”

“I, um. Just wondering.”

“Are you worried that he’ll be mad you were trespassing in his room and taking his stuff?”

“I wasn’t…”

“Then what are you doing?”

Marius supposes he should come clean, but it’s pretty embarrassing. “Research,” he ends up saying, sounding terribly unconvincing to his own ears. But Enjolras just nods, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Do you need help?”

“Do you know anything about comics?”

“Hmm.” Enjolras scratches his beautiful golden head. “Um, well, I read Sailor Moon manga as a kid. Does that count?”

“Uh… no.”

“Oh. Well then, no. I don’t know anything about comics.”

This is pretty much exactly what Marius had expected. He nods. “Then, do you think Combeferre would mind if I borrowed his stuff? I kind of need to learn about Hydra for Bahorel.”

“Hydra? What’s Hydra?”

“Who the heck knows? I have to read a whole library worth of comics tonight.”

“That sounds fun,” says Enjolras, probably sincerely. “I hope you have a really good time.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help? I could give you coffee or something.”

“Actually, coffee would be great.”

Enjolras summarily bustles out to the kitchen and starts brewing coffee. He comes back about ten minutes later with a mug, which he hands to Marius, and the whole coffee pot, which he starts drinking from himself. Marius looks at him askance. 

“Is that sanitary?”

“Don’t worry, I poured yours out first.”

“Yeah, but Combeferre wouldn’t like it, would he?”

“It won’t hurt him.”

Marius can’t argue with that. He takes another sip of coffee, and settles down to get to work. Enjolras stays in the room, perched on the bed, and keeps him company, although he’s sort of distracting.

“That’s a weird art style,” he says, pointing at one Liefeld-esque rendition of Black Widow.

“Yeah,” agrees Marius absently. He’s having trouble keeping all the storylines straight. It’s really hard to figure out which character is which, too. “How does Feuilly manage to follow this?” he asks, turning onto a particularly gory splash page and immediately looking away. Enjolras shrugs.

“They’re smart.”

“And I’m not?”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re very smart. It’s just in a different way.”

His earnestness is somewhat flattering. Marius gives him a brisk smile before turning back to his comic book. He really has some work to do.

“You do believe me, right?” comes Enjolras’s voice, laced with anxiety. Marius looks up again, trying not to show his annoyance at being interrupted.

“Yes, I believe you.”

“Good.”

There’s silence for all of five minutes, and then Enjolras gets off the bed and comes over to sit beside Marius. 

“Can I help?”

“You want to? But you don’t know anything about comics.”

“That’s okay,” says Enjolras, and holds up a pen. “I’ll take notes.”

Well, why not? It would make everything go faster. Marius puts a stack of possibly-Hydra-related comics into his hands.

“There you go. That’s the Hydra pile. Go through and take notes on the storylines. If it’s related to Hydra, put it in this pile. If not, put it here. Okay?”

“Okay.”

They both go to work silently for awhile, until Enjolras laughs suddenly, and holds his comic book out. 

“Look, doesn’t he look like Montparnasse?”

Marius has to laugh, too. “Yeah, he does. I think it’s the hair.”

“Montparnasse does have really nice hair,” says Enjolras musingly. “And nice eyes. And lips. And hands. And everything.”

“I guess.”

“Anyway, back to Hydra,” says Enjolras, looking a little red in the face. He bends over his comic once again, and after a second, starts to take notes. Marius joins him.

Again, they work in silence, until Marius gets a headache from squinting at all the details in the panels, trying to figure out if they’re relevant or not. Enjolras insists he take a break, and they head out into the kitchen.

“Would you like some water?” asks Enjolras. “‘Ferre is always telling me to stay hydrated.”

“Sure.”

Enjolras fills a cup from the Brita and hands it over. Then, he leans back on the counter and asks, in a mildly curious and completely innocent manner,

“Why didn’t you just use Wikipedia to find the Hydra storyline?”

Marius grits his teeth. “Because,” he says, “I didn’t think of it.”

“Oh.”

There’s nothing judgmental in that  _ oh _ , but it annoys Marius anyway. He sets his cup of water on the counter, and turns to go back into the bedroom. Headache or not, he’s going to finish this damn labor.

\--

The next day, at precisely 5PM, Bahorel struts into the Musain and throws himself across the chair in front of Marius. 

“Greetings,” he says. “Hast thou prepared for me the knowledge?”

“Why are you talking like that?” asks Marius. Bahorel pulls a flask out of his pocket and takes a drink instead of answering. He offers some to Marius, but Marius politely declines.

“I have the info about Hydra.”

“Great!” Bahorel gestures at the notebook in his hand. “Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“But… there’s so much.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well.” There’s a beat of silence, during which Bahorel’s eye twitches, then he lifts his flask to his lips and takes another long drink. He can really put it away. “All right, let’s get started.”

\--

“So you’re telling me they made  _ Captain America _ a Hydra agent?” Bahorel’s voice is dripping with indignation. He slams his fist on the table, making it rattle. “That’s bullshit, man! Bullshit!”

“I know,” agrees Marius mildly.

“Bullshit!”

“Most people aren’t very happy about it, it seems.”

“Does Feuilly know?”

“I mean, they read comics, right? And they like Marvel? I’m guessing they probably know.”

“Oh man. I gotta find them.”

“But I think they know--”

“Bye, Marius!”

Bahorel goes racing out of the cafe, man-bun flapping in the breeze. Marius watches him go, shaking his head. He doesn’t think he’s coming back.

—

It’s 3AM when Marius gets the call.

“Bahorel wants to talk to you.”

“Feuilly?” Marius blinks, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes. “Why are you calling me?”

“Bahorel. He wants to talk to you.”

“Then why isn’t he calling me?”

“You’ll see.”

And with this cryptic reply, Feuilly must give the phone to Bahorel, because now there’s a grown man sobbing his head off on the other end of the line.

“Dude, why did you have to open my eyes? Now I know… I know…”

“Bahorel,” says Marius. “Are you drunk?”

“Yeah! I had to, Marius, to deal with the pain.”

“What pain?”

“The pain of knowing they made him… they, Hydra they, they…”

Suddenly, Marius understands. “You’re still upset that they made Captain America a Hydra agent.”

Bahorel wails fiercely, and goes off into a fresh round of sobs. There’s some rustling, and then Feuilly’s voice returns.

“You see what I have to deal with?”

“I’m so sorry,” Marius tells them. “Will he snap out of it soon?”

“Probably not.”

Shit. “I’ll do you a labor,” says Marius. “Please don’t be mad.”

Feuilly laughs. It’s warm and open and kind. “Don’t worry. I’m used to it. As for the labor, I’ll keep your offer in mind. I certainly do appreciate it.”

“Nah,” says Marius, though he has no idea why. “Uh, anyway, how’s your night going?”

“All right. I just got home from work at my second job. Now I have to get ready for my first job, because I’m opening.”

Marius doesn’t know what to say. “I glad I don’t have to work that hard,” he ends up saying, and then wonders if it was insensitive. Feuilly laughs again.

“Yes, be thankful.”

The conversation is a little awkward after that, but only for a short time, and then Marius becomes engrossed in it, and it’s not awkward anymore. By the time Feuilly has to hang up to leave for work, they’ve made Marius agree to a coffee date. Marius settles back down in bed, smiling to himself. He’s not even upset at having his sleep interrupted. That’s just how wonderful Feuilly is. This, he thinks, was a labor that was worth doing.


	3. Oh Deer!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thr Ceryneian Hind

“So there’s something I wanted to discuss with you,” says Feuilly the next week. Marius looks up from his coffee cup. 

“What is it?”

“Deer.”

“Yes... darling?”

“Animal deer,” clarifies Feuilly, making adorable antlers above their head with crooked fingers. “I want to save them.”

“Save the deer?”

“Yeah. There’s this group of people I work with who won’t stop talking about how they go hunting all the time. It’s really pissing me off! I don’t know how to stop them, besides lecturing them every time they talk about it, but that’s sort of lost its punch. I was thinking about getting Enjolras to talk to them, but he’s so busy…”

Marius understands. “You want me to talk to them?”

“Not to them, no.”

“Then to whom?”

“Javert.”

Oh, hell no. Marius holds up his hands, wiggling them back and forth. “No, Feuilly. Look, I want to help, I really do, but Javert scares the pants off me. I went in to report a robbery one time and he gave me a  _ gun _ . I’m not talking to him.”

“But the deer!”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Hmm.” Feuilly cocks their head. “Don’t you owe me a labor?”

Damn them. Marius balls his fists up in his lap. “I mean, I expected you to be reasonable about it.”

“This  _ is _ reasonable. Think of the deer.”

“Think of  _ me _ .”

“It’ll be fine,” says Feuilly. “You know, I think Javert actually likes you. At least, he likes you more than the rest of us.”

“I mean, that’s not surprising. You’ve all got an arrest record as long as my arm.”

“I’ve only been properly arrested once,” says Feuilly primly. “Besides, there were extenuating circumstances.”

“What? Didn’t you get arrested because you and Bahorel hot-glued dildos to all the police cars in the precinct?”

“Yeah, and I’m damn proud of that.”

“Then, what were the extenuating circumstances?”

“That we got caught.”

Marius shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Feuilly. I just can’t.”

“Ah.” Feuilly nods. “Well, no hard feelings, dude. I get it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. We all have our limits.”

Marius is surprised, but relieved, and soon, the conversation turns to other things. He goes home, thinking that he really ought to go out for coffee with his friends more often. All deer problems aside, this has been a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. 

\--

The next day, Enjolras finds Marius after class.

“Hello,” he says pleasantly. “I heard you don’t want to help Feuilly.”

Dammit, who told him? Marius grits his teeth. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that I  _ can’t _ .”

“You can’t?”

“No. I’m scared shitless of Javert.”

“Javert?” Enjolras snorts contemptuously. “He’s not that bad. Just approach him right, and he’ll he your ally.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fine.”

“Really? You’re letting it go?”

“Hell no. I’m dragging you down to the pigpen with me.”

“No,” protests Marius, but it’s already too late. Enjolras has that Look. 

“You’re coming,” he says.

Marius sighs. He has no other choice. 

“Okay.”

\--

“Can I help you,” says Javert. He never asks anything; Marius doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone so rigid and completely sure of themself. Enjolras leans over the desk, pouting prettily.

“I sure hope you can, honey.”

“You can cut the act,” says Javert, unimpressed. “I recognize you.”

Immediately, Enjolras straightens up, going back to his usual stern self. “Okay. I’m afraid I must report a flagrant rule violation by certain members of our community.”

“I thought you lived to flout rules.”

“Not these. No, you see, these are rules which protect the weakest and most helpless members of our global society, rules which prevent the endangerment of these unfortunate beings, and safeguard their natural-born rights. In short, these rules should not be broken by anyone who claims to be a decent citizen-- or human being.”

Now Javert looks interested. He leans across the desk, eyes glowing under his bushy brows. “To what unfortunate beings are you referring?”

Marius understands what’s going on. After all, he’s a law student, too. He nudges Enjolras with his hip, only barely managing to contain his laughter when his tiny body goes flying. This, he can do.

“Enjolras is referring to animals,” he says bluntly. “You see, Javert, animals are helpless. They don’t have the same protections that you and I do. All they can do is hope to be protected under the law-- but when the law fails to serve them, what’s to be done?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Hunting.”

“Hunting? That’s illegal without a proper license and season!”

“Exactly. And that’s why I’m so concerned. You see, there’s a group of people who have taken it upon themselves to maintain this abominable practice, actively harming innocent creatures, and, most importantly (to you, anyway), insolently breaking the law. Tell me, Javert, what’s to be done about this?”

Javert looks deeply troubled. He pulls at his chin, frowning so hard that Marius is surprised the desk in front of him doesn’t ignite from his glare. 

“You’re right, boys,” he says. “We need to do something about this, and now. Who are these people, do you know?”

“I do indeed.” Enjolras whips out a piece of paper and plants it on the desk with a dramatic flourish. “Here you are: a list of names of the perpetrators of these evil deeds.”

Javert takes the list and begins to look it over. “Thank you, boys,” he says without looking up. “I will make sure to take care of this immediately. Such things cannot stand. Don’t worry, this will stop with me.”

“Thank you,” trills Enjolras, and then, turning swiftly on his heel, marches out of the building, avenging angel in the truest sense of the word. Marius can't do anything but follow him, though he does give Javert a thankful sort of wave as he goes.

Javert will take care of it. Marius knows he will. That’s one more labor he can consider done.

\--

“Why haven’t you texted Cosette yet?” asks Courfeyrac, getting all up into Marius’s personal business like some kind of boundary-lacking cat. “You said Eponine gave you her number. Are you too shy?”

“Get off me,” grumbles Marius, shoving him. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“Simple. Just be like  _ hey it’s Marius, wanna grab coffee _ , and then that’ll be that.”

“But what if she says no?”

“Then you can date someone else. I mean, I’m single.”

Marius ignores this, as well as the ludicrous wink that Courfeyrac sends his way. “I just don’t know,” he says. Courfeyrac grabs his phone out of his hands.

“Okay, I’ll do it for you.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Okay, fine. But how about this? Text Enjolras and tell him to say hi to Cosette for you. That way, you don’t have to text her, but you can still make contact.”

It’s a pretty good idea, so Marius takes his phone back and shoots Enjolras a quick message asking him to give Cosette his best. In only a few minutes, Enjolras replies back.

“She says hi,” he writes. “And she added some emojis.”

“What emojis?”

“The smiley face, the sparkle, and the Easter Island head.”

“I like her,” says Courfeyrac. “That’s a good selection right there.”

“Okay, thank you,” Marius writes to Enjolras. “You can go back to writing strongly worded letters now, or whatever it was you were doing.”

“I wasn’t doing that,” Enjolras replies, but Marius ignores him. He has more important things to think about.

“Do you think Cosette thinks I’m weird?” he asks. Courfeyrac pats him on the head.

“You are weird.”

“But I don’t want her to think so.”

“No, you have to be yourself,” says Courfeyrac, so seriously that Marius is startled into attention. “If you don’t show her all of yourself, how can she fall in love with you? It has to be genuine.”

Marius considers this. It’s probably good advice, but he doesn’t want to follow it. After all, what if Cosette decides to reject him after seeing what kind of person he really is? No, it’s probably better to shape himself into something that she would like. 

“I think I’m going to keep on doing what I’m doing,” he says.

“Tell me how that works out for ya.”

“It’ll work out.”

“Okay.” Courfeyrac pats him again, and gets up. “I’m off to visit Enjolras and Combeferre. Wanna come?”

Marius shakes his head as quickly as he can. Revolution talk is great in its place, but he’s not really feeling it today. Instead, he calls Eponine.

“Do you want to come over?” he asks, when she picks up the phone.

“I’m watching the WWE championship match,” Eponine replies, and now that Marius is primed for it, he can hear a lot of noise going on in the background.

“Are you having a party?”

“No, that’s just my roommates. Anyway, why don’t you come over here? You can watch with me.”

Marius doesn’t understand any sports in the slightest, especially wrestling, but he knows Eponine will show him a good time if he comes over, so he agrees.

“I’ll bring beer.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite,” says Eponine. “I’ll see you soon.”

Marius hangs up, smiling. He may have to do labors for all his friends to keep them from hating him, but at least he can always count on Eponine. 

\--

Feuilly comes to Marius’s apartment a few days later, all glowing and bright-eyed. “Marius!” they yell, as soon as they get into the apartment. “Marius, you did it!”

Marius looks up from his translation work. “ _ Was hast du gesagt _ ?”

“Hmm?  _ Co masz na myśli _ ?”

“Um.” Brought back to reality, Marius shakes his head to clear it. “What were you talking about?”

“The deer!” Feuilly races around to the other side of the desk and embraces Marius firmly, laying his head under their chin. “Marius, you saved the deer!”

“I did?”

“Yeah! Javert put some heavy fines on those assholes, and the deer are safe now. And it’s all thanks to you!”

“Mostly to Enjolras,” says Marius, determined to be fair. “He’s the one who talked to Javert for me.”

“No, he told me. You talked to him, too. Don’t be modest; you did great!”

It’s so nice to be praised. Marius feels his heart glowing inside him, filling him up with light and warmth from the inside out. “Thank you,” he says. 

“No,” says Feuilly. “Thank  _ you _ .”

Marius invites them to stay for dinner after that. How could he not? He makes salad, and they make soup, insisting that this is their home recipe and Bahorel always eats a whole pot full of it when they make it, and when Courfeyrac comes back, he takes over the entire counter and makes biscuits. 

“I’m a proper Southern boy,” he says. “My biscuits are worth their weight in gold.”

They do turn out to be pretty delicious. Marius doesn’t know how he did it, but somehow, they’re both flaky and tender. He eats several of them throughout the course of the night.

“Why do you like deer so much?” asks Courfeyrac, as Feuilly curls up on the couch with a plate of buttered biscuits and a mug of hot chocolate. Feuilly looks up in surprise.

“How could you not? They’re so cute!”

“Aren’t they like really big?” asks Courfeyrac irrelevantly. “I think I’d be scared to meet one.”

“It probably wouldn’t like meeting you, either.”

“Rude!”

In this cozy atmosphere, it’s easy to sit and talk and eat all night long, and when Feuilly goes to work and Courfeyrac goes to bed, Marius starts working on his translation again, feeling completely light and happy.

So, if this is how it feels to do a labor, maybe the rest of them won’t be so bad at all.


	4. The Erymanthian Barbecue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Erymanthian Boar

Musichetta approaches Marius after dinner at her apartment, while Joly and Bossuet are play-fighting with the spoons they’re supposed to be washing. 

“I heard you’re doing labors,” she says. 

Marius nods, turning to wipe down the table. “I’ve already done Eponine, Bahorel, and Feuilly.”

“I bet you have,” says Musichetta salaciously, because Joly and Bossuet aren’t the only immature ones in their household. Marius isn’t sure what to do with this, so he hides his face as he keeps cleaning. 

“You know what I mean.”

“Sure, I do.”

Musichetta keeps looking at him. He can tell, even when his back is turned. “Um, well. Did you want one?”

“Oh, for  _ me _ ? That would be so  _ splendid _ !” Musichetta bounces around the table and tips Marius’s chin up with one finger. “Aren’t you just the sweetest little pickle?”

“Sweet pickles sound like an abomination of nature,” calls Bossuet. Joly bops him with his spoon.

“Sweet pickles are like those mini cocktail ones. You like those.”

“Oh, right. I do like those.”

Musichetta puts an arm around Marius and leads him out of the kitchen and into the living room, where Grantaire and Courfeyrac, who are also here tonight, are lying on the rug and Photoshopping each other’s faces onto pictures of bread.

“Hey look,” says Grantaire, holding up his phone. “Courfeyrac’s on a roll.”

“Your puns just baguette-in worse and worse,” says Musichetta. Grantaire looks delighted.

“Should I make an artistic masterpiece for you, too?”

“If you must.”

“I must.”

He opens up another document and begins working hard on it, tongue poking out in concentration. Musichetta laughs at him, then leads Marius to sit down on the couch, putting her arm around him familiarly. 

“Now, listen. I know you offered to do some labors, but… can you be discreet about it?”

Marius doesn’t quite like the sound of this. “I don’t want to do anything illegal,” he says.

“No, no. It’s not illegal. Just kinda taboo around these parts.”

Even worse. Marius shakes his head. “I don’t want to become a pariah.”

“You won’t, don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”

“What is it, anyway?”

“You see,” Musichetta lowers her voice, “I want to go to a barbecue.”

She hadn’t been as quiet as she’d probably wanted to be. From the rug, Grantaire lets out a dramatic, noisy gasp. 

“You want to go to a b--”

“Shut up,” says Musichetta quickly. “Joly and Boss can’t know until afterwards, okay? They’d be too scandalized.”

“Ah, vegans!”

Marius is confused. “Why can’t you just go to one?” he asks.

“If I searched one up, the boys would find out, and then they would start leaving printed-out pages from The Jungle all over the house, and get Grantaire to paint weird pictures of me, and stop kissing me as an act of protest, and that would just be too much. I can’t go through that again.”

“Ah.”

“So, that’s your job,” continues Musichetta brightly. “Go online, or poke around in person, and find a nice tailgate party or something. I don’t care what it is as long as it’s not hosted by raging conservatives. Try to get us both an invite.”

This sounds like an awful lot of social interaction. Marius swallows nervously. “What if I can’t do it?”

“Then I’ll get Mr. Fauchelevent to grill me a steak or something. It’s no biggie. Just do your best, okay?”

Marius considers it. He isn’t sure he can, but at least this is easier than breaking into Montparnasse’s house, or explaining to Enjolras why comic book artists draw women in such objectifying poses. He takes a second to get his gumption up, and nods.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Great!” Musichetta pats him on the head like a puppy. “I’ll be looking forward to it! Now, let’s do something fun. Do you have Photoshop on your phone?”

“No.”

“That’s okay, you can use my tablet. Let’s see how many weird pictures of Joly and Boss we can make before they get done doing the dishes.”

\--

In the end, it’s pretty easy to find an open-invitation event on Facebook. It’s hosted by the city’s Farmer’s Association, which Marius hadn’t even known existed, but they seem like a pretty friendly bunch of people, and the party’s being held downtown, which isn’t too far away. So, that Saturday, he dons a flannel and some ripped jeans, hops in Musichetta’s car, and heads down to the beach for some barbecue.

His first thought when he gets there is that these people don’t look like farmers. They’re all wearing normal clothes, and none of them are chewing on stalks of grass, or tipping their hats to the ladies who walk past. No, they just look like typical hipsters who just happen to be hanging around, talking about the price of hay. Nothing weird about that.

Marius wants to stick to the background and not talk to anyone, but Musichetta isn’t having any of that. She marches right up to the first group of people she sees and sticks out her hand.

“Hey! My name’s Musichetta, and this is Marius!”

These farmers are probably the friendliest people Marius has ever met, aside from Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bossuet. Within five minutes, he’s being searched up on Facebook, and within ten, he’s being made to tell everyone about his third grade piano recital, and the way he’d fallen through the stage and taken the piano with him. 

“And it just crashed on through,” he says. “I didn’t really know what was going on until after. My grandpa was pretty mad, though.”

The farmers burst out laughing. “You’ve lived a life, haven't you, son,” cheers one of them, in the most obvious statement possible. Marius appreciates the implication, though, and ducks his head.

“Oh, well I’m glad you think so.”

“Hey,” says another farmer, before Marius has to think of something else to say, or worse, another childhood story to tell, “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

“Now we’re cookin’ with gas,” says Musichetta. “Let’s go get some!”

\--

Marius and Musichetta stay at the party for five hours, talking, laughing, and eating with the farmers. By the time they’re ready to leave, they have a whole iPhone note full of contact information, and Marius has had to unzip his pants because his belt has gotten too tight. 

“That was amazing,” says Musichetta, as she walks them back to her car. “Wasn’t it amazing? I’m so happy right now.”

“Me too,” says Marius. “But wow, I didn’t even know I could eat that much chicken.”

“Yeah, you were really putting it away. I thought they were going to run out by the end.”

“Okay, but what about you? I saw you eat like four racks of ribs.”

“And a burger, and two pulled pork sliders,” adds Musichetta proudly. “Whew, my tummy is happier ‘n a bear in summer!”

“Do you want to rest in the car a bit before we go home?”

“I’m so glad you asked. Hell yes.”

So the two of them rest in the car, Musichetta taking up the back seat, and Marius stretched out in front. They plug in Musichetta’s phone and listen to jazz, just relaxing and enjoying the cool beach air floating in through the windows. It’s lazy and hazy and perfect, an early-evening magic hour. Marius thinks about how lucky he is.

“Thank you,” he says. “This was really fun.”

“Aww, I’m glad.” Musichetta reaches up and pats Marius’s arm. “You deserve to have fun, you know. Not everything has to be all hustle all the time.”

It’s an interesting perspective, but Marius isn’t sure he agrees, if only because, “I don’t know how to have fun.”

“Just hang around with us,” says Musichetta. “You’ll learn. Even Enjolras did.”

“So you mean he used to be even more… like that?”

Musichetta laughs. “I know, isn’t he cute?”

That’s not the adjective Marius would use. But that’s okay. Musichetta is entitled to her own opinion, even if Marius thinks it’s wrong. 

Eventually, once they feel less lethargic, Musichetta comes back up to the driver’s seat and takes them home. They get stuck in traffic on the way back, but it doesn’t bother Marius too much, one because he’s not the one driving, and two, because this way, he gets more of a chance to talk to Musichetta. Somehow, it’s easier to hold a conversation when it’s the only thing to do.

“I heard you haven’t texted Cosette,” says Musichetta. “Why not?”

“I want things to go well,” Marius explains, not wanting to admit that he’s just plain scared. “I don’t know what to say.”

Musichetta glances at him, before turning back to the road. “It’s easy, dude. Cosette is the easiest person to talk to ever. Just text her a picture of an alien or something.”

“What? No, that’s weird.”

“Okay, well, text her your favorite Nietzsche quotation.”

“I don’t read Nietzsche!”

“It’ll be okay,” says Musichetta. “Seriously, you’re putting way too much thought into this. Just text her.”

“Maybe.”

Marius doesn’t end up texting her, but he does have a lot to think about. He’s silent, lost in thought for the last fifteen minutes of the drive.

When they get back to Musichetta’s place, Joly and Bossuet are eating kale. They look up when Musichetta and Marius come in, and Joly points accusingly.

“You ate a pig!”

“Yes,” says Musichetta. “But how did you know?”

“Facebook!”

Bossuet scowls like he’s been personally betrayed. “Why didn’t you invite us?”

“You’re vegans. Why the hell would you want to go?”

“To be with you.”

“But you wouldn’t be able to eat anything besides corn.”

“We don’t care. We just want to spend time with you.”

Musichetta’s face melts. “Aww, babes, I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll definitely bring you along.”

Joly and Bossuet immediately get up and kiss her on either side of her mouth. “We love you.”

“I love you, too.”

After this, things quickly become a little more steamy, and Marius decides that now is the time to go. He practically runs out the door, as Musichetta pushes Bossuet down on the couch, and Joly starts stripping in the middle of the living room. The last thing he hears is something extremely inappropriate, and he begins to rush off down the hall, determined not to catch any more.

So, that was an ending to the day. Still, he’s happy as he climbs into his car. This labor hadn’t felt like much of a labor at all. 


	5. An Unstable Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Augean Stables

Grantaire turns his paper back and forth, showing off all the angles of his latest masterpiece. He purses his lips, scribbles something else, then holds it up again, reaching out for Marius to see.

“What do you think?”

“It’s, um. Very detailed.”

“Thank you. It’s high art.”

“It’s a meme.”

“Yeah.”

Marius isn’t sure what to say to that. He looks down into his cup of coffee, contemplating the situation. He’s in a diner at 4AM, with no one but Grantaire, and somehow, it feels like they’re on a date. How did this happen? He doesn’t want to date Grantaire.

“Are we on a date?” he asks.

Grantaire looks up from his sketchpad and leers at him exaggeratedly.

“Why, Marius! You never said you wanted to date me. I’m flattered!”

“I don’t,” stutters Marius, then realizing how rude that was, hastens to backtrack. “Not that you’re not great, you know, but Cosette…”

Grantaire is laughing like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “I’m just kidding, you dork. I don’t want to date you, either. I’m also pining after a certain pretty angel.”

“ _ Cosette _ ?”

“Her brother.”

“Oh. But doesn’t he scare you?”

“Yeah, it’s so great.”

Well, that’s weird. Marius doesn’t really know what to say to that, either. Why is it so difficult to talk to Grantaire? And how did they get here, anyway? All he’d done was post on Facebook that he couldn’t sleep; he hadn’t been expecting Grantaire to show up to his apartment and whisk him away to a 24-hour diner for an “omelette adventure.” Sure, the omelettes they’d eaten had been really good, probably the best he’s ever had, but he’s still so confused by this whole situation. 

“Why were you awake?” he asks.

“I was doing laundry.”

“But why?”

“Because I wanted clean clothes. Really, Marius, come on now.”

“Don’t you have work in the morning?”

Grantaire blows a raspberry. “I can work when I’m dead.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Watch me. I’ll be the world’s most productive ghost, living the afterlife under the shackles of capitalism.”

“That sounds like a scary story that Enjolras would tell,” says Marius. Grantaire laughs.

“He would. What a cutie.”

They lapse into silence for a bit, Grantaire probably thinking about Enjolras, and Marius thinking about his weird life. This is a cryptid experience if he’s ever had one, even though Grantaire doesn’t seem to think it’s anything out of the ordinary. Maybe Grantaire  _ is _ a cryptid. That would explain a lot.

“Hey, so,” says Grantaire, before Marius can casually ask him if he’s a supernatural being or not, “I heard you were channeling the ancients and doing an advanced Hercules role-play.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Somehow, Marius feels like he can tell Grantaire. He’s also struggled with being part of the group in the past (something Marius only knows because Courfeyrac told him, and which he will never divulge that he knows), and he’s more understanding than he lets on. 

“I messed up,” he says. “At the meeting, you know.”

“Oh, the capitalism thing?” Grantaire flops his hand. “No, don’t worry about that. I’ve said much worse things, and Enjolras still lets me in, so you’ll definitely be fine.”

“But Enjolras likes you. And the others do, too. I don’t think any of them like me.”

“Don’t you live with Courfeyrac? I’m pretty sure he, at least, likes you.”

“I don’t know. I’m sure he’d choose the others over me if he had to make a choice.”

“What kind of weird-ass choice would that be?” Grantaire pulls a cigarette out from his pocket and lights it up, oblivious or purposefully ignorant to the  _ No Smoking _ sign in the window. “Look, Marius. Maybe you don’t know them all that well yet, but that’s okay. Friendship takes time. And they’re not going to hate you just because you said something stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid!”

“Saying it to them, though? Yeah.”

Marius sighs and slumps down on the sticky table. This is all such a difficult problem. “Do you really not think they hate me?” he asks.

“No, I don’t. Otherwise, they would hate me, too, and I’m going to completely discount that possibility, just for my own sanity.”

That’s not very reassuring. Marius sighs. “I think I’m going to keep doing my labors anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” says Grantaire, shrugging. “Don’t put yourself out too much, though.”

“I haven’t been.”

“Are you sure? Eponine told me you broke into Montparnasse’s apartment.”

“He let me in.”

Grantaire whistles, impressed. “Now, that must have taken some convincing. Hats off to you, sir.”

“Do you want a labor?” Marius asks, not really wanting to offer, but feeling as if he ought to do so. Grantaire puffs on his cigarette.

“For real?”

“Yes.”

“Then yeah, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Okay. What do you want me to do?”

“Possibilities, possibilities,” muses Grantaire. “Hmm, let’s see. Ah, I know. See, Enjolras is coming over to my place, but it’s a bit messy. Do you think you could help me so I don’t gross him out and make him want to leave?”

“Has he never been to your place before?”

“No, this is going to be the first time.”

Despite Grantaire’s careless act of bravado and studied casualness, Marius can sense a core of nervousness vibrating under his skin. He’s genuinely worried about looking good to his crush, something that’s terribly relatable to Marius, who is absorbed in thinking of ways to impress Cosette at any given moment of the day. So, he decides to agree. How bad can it be, anyway? It’s just cleaning. He does that all the time.

“Sure,” he says. “I can help you out.”

“Fuckin’ sweet.” Grantaire grins and leans across the table to peck Marius on the cheek. “You’re a good guy.”

“Thanks,” says Marius, thinking that of the two of them, Grantaire is really the good one. This labor is going to be a piece of cake.

\--

It’s not a piece of cake.

When Grantaire shows Marius into the apartment the next day, all Marius can think is that he must be on camera, being pranked or something, because there’s no way anyone could actually live like this. Grantaire’s apartment is  _ horrible _ . There's literal  _ dirt _ on the floor. 

“Is this really your apartment?” he asks weakly. 

“Yup!” Grantaire looks way too cheerful about this. Marius sort of wants to punch him. “You can clean this in a few hours, right? Enjolras is coming at 6.”

Now Marius  _ really _ wants to punch him. “You didn’t tell me that he was coming today.”

“Oh, I didn’t?”

“No.”

“Oops. But you can get it cleaned, right?”

“I… I’ll try.”

“Great!” Grantaire skips merrily to the door, and grabs his coat and keys. “I'm going to go eat a whole bunch of noodles now. Good luck, see ya!” And with that, he’s gone.

Marius stares after him in supreme dismay. How is he supposed to get this horrible apartment clean in only a few hours? Desperate, he pulls out his phone and opens up messaging.

_ Enjolras _ , he types.  _ Please tell Grantaire that you’re going to be late today. If you come on time, it’ll definitely be bad! _

Enjolras replies only a few minutes later (during which Marius is sitting disconsolately on the floor and just looking at the horrible hellscape around him).  _ Why? _

_ Because it will _ , types Marius.  _ Please just trust me on this one. _

To his great and unending relief, Enjolras replies with a simple (if somewhat huffy)  _ fine _ , and keeps it at that, presumably leaving off to text Grantaire. 

So, Marius now has a few more hours at most. He can’t expect Enjolras to be that late-- that’s not in his genetic makeup. But at least the little time that he's managed to buy might help him make a dent in the detritus and decay taking over this apartment. 

He sits for a few more minutes, unable to do anything else, and then, once he’s gained enough courage and momentum to begin what has to be the most thankless task of his life, he stands and looks around. This place is a trash-heap, but even the worst trash-heap has an area that’s not as bad as the rest. All he has to do is find that area and clean it up-- and then go on to the next one, and the next… and the next.

All right. He can do this.

\--

Eight hours later, Marius has gotten the apartment vaguely clean. He doesn’t think he has it in him to do anything more than that, but at least he can see the floor now, and there isn’t any more dirt on it, either. He counts that as a job well done. He stumbles to the newly-sanitary couch and flops down on it, deciding that he’s not going to move again until Enjolras and Grantaire get here. 

This was a labor in the truest sense of the word, he thinks, as he stretches out on the couch, head pillowed on the arm-rest. He’s going to be sore tomorrow from hauling all those trash bags around and down the stairs, not to mention from all the scrubbing he’d had to do. He’d had to scrub the  _ ceiling _ , for goodness’ sakes. How had Grantaire managed to get food stains up there?

Still, he's done a pretty good job. The living room is tidy now, and even if the rest of the house isn’t  _ totally _ spotless (with the exception of the bedroom, because Marius is pretty sure Grantaire will want to take Enjolras in there), if all goes well, Grantaire will consider this a completed labor. Marius doesn’t even notice when his eyes begin to close, too tired to register that he’s falling asleep. All he can think, dimly, is that Enjolras better be grateful for all of this.

Marius wakes up at 3AM to some particularly unmelodious sounds coming from Grantaire’s recently cleaned bedroom. Either Enjolras is  _ really _ enthusiastic about the cleaning job, or he’s doing something that Marius doesn’t particularly want to think about, because he keeps screaming  _ yes, yes, yes _ and hitting what sounds like his entire body against the wall. Marius groans and covers his ears with the blanket that someone kindly provided to him. This wasn’t included in the labor. He wants out. 

Two terrible hours later (Enjolras and Grantaire seem to have rather ridiculous amounts of stamina), the apartment is quiet again. Marius lays his head down on the couch pillow, exhausted and ready for sleep. This has been a long,  _ long _ day. It’s good he doesn’t have an early class tomorrow, because he wants to sleep in. Finally, a little time to rest.

\--

Grantaire starts singing at 6AM. He has a good voice, but Marius isn’t thinking about that. He’s thinking about the fact that it’s  _ 6AM _ , and Grantaire is singing opera. 

“ _ La donna e mobile _ ,” he warbles, twirling and skipping over to the coffeemaker, shaking the entire apartment each time he lands on his feet. “ _ Qual piuma al vento, muta d’accento, e di pensier _ !”

He’s finally finishing the aria (and doing squats, for whatever reason), when the door to the bedroom opens, and Enjolras comes shuffling out, all bundled up in an oversized sweater, and looking like a sleepy kitten. Finally-- he’ll tell Grantaire to shut up, and Marius can get some more sleep.

“You’re singing,” he says, voice adorably cracked from sleep, which is a good start, but then Grantaire turns to him with arms outstretched. 

“ _ Chéri _ !”

“That’s the wrong language,” says Enjolras, and then with no further ado, begins singing in very bad, mispronounced Italian. Grantaire hollers in delight and grabs him, slow-dancing with him as they duet.

Marius can’t believe this. “Guys,” he says.

“Oh, good morning, Marius,” says Grantaire, as Enjolras turns bright red and tries to hide behind him (hilarious, because he peeks out from around his elbow to see what Marius’s reaction is). “Would you like some eggs?”

Actually, Marius really would like some eggs, but he feels like he needs to first remonstrate with these two annoying lovebirds for waking him up so early in the morning. “Don’t you think it’s a little early?” he asks sternly. 

“Oh, sorry, did we wake you up?” Grantaire doesn’t look sorry at all. He turns to Enjolras, pouting dramatically. “We’re so sorryyyyyy~!”   
“You don’t need to sing it.”

“Yes, I do~!”

Fine. Marius isn’t getting anywhere here. “Could I have some eggs, then?” he asks. “Scrambled, please.”

“And can I have mine poached?” adds Enjolras cheerfully. “I like those.”

Grantaire squeezes him around the waist, tickling him. “I like  _ you _ .”

“Grantaire! Stop it!”

“Stop liking you? I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

Enjolras turns around in his arms, and, right before Marius’s horrified eyes, begins to kiss him. He’s very thorough about it, too. Marius doesn’t know where to look.

“Should I, um, should I cook?” he offers at last.

Enjolras and Grantaire break apart, all tousled and red-lipped. “What?”

“Breakfast. Should I cook it?”

“Oh.” Enjolras grabs the front of Grantaire’s shirt and pulls on it. “R, can I cook? I really want to.”

“But sweetheart, you can’t cook very well.”

“No, I know, but I’ll do my best, so don’t worry.”

“Really?” Grantaire leans down for another kiss. “Hmm, okay. But I’m going to help you.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Despite their words, though, neither of them ends up cooking for quite a long time. They’re too busy being all gross and  _ romantic _ . Finally, Marius opens up the refrigerator and starts the process by himself, and after about ten minutes, Grantaire and Enjolras realize what he’s doing and begin to help him. They’re not very helpful, and they keep giving each other bedroom eyes, but finally breakfast is ready, and they can all sit down to eat together. 

It’s not as awkward as Marius had thought it would be. Enjolras sits next to him instead of Grantaire, and even though the two of them are probably playing footsie under the table, they don’t make it overtly obvious that they want Marius gone. So it’s a nice meal, and by the end of it, Marius is even feeling pretty happy. He’s here with Enjolras and Grantaire on their first morning together-- this is history being made!

He’s so content that he doesn’t even mind when Grantaire sends him off with a smacking kiss on the lips (he slips him a bit of tongue, too, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to mind) and a pat on the ass. 

“Come again soon!” he says. Enjolras smiles more sedately, and clasps his hand. 

“Yes, please do.”

“And now,” says Grantaire, wiggling his eyebrows, “I’m going to make Enjolras come again. If you know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, Marius does. He high-tails it out of the apartment at light speed after that. History might be in the making here, but there are some things he just doesn’t want to experience. 


	6. Cemetery Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stymphalian Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never met anyone in real life who calls ladybugs ladybirds, but I Know It’s A Thing All Right

Marius is walking back from his first lecture, listening to music and minding his own business, when all of a sudden, a deft finger whips his earphones away, and a silky-smooth voice asks him if he wants to take a little walk.

For a second, Marius really thinks he’s about to die. He’s about to make peace for his soul, lamenting the fact that he’ll never see Cosette or his friends again, when the voice asks him if he’s okay, and he realizes that it’s just Montparnasse.

“Hello,” he says, trying to stop himself from shaking in post-terror shock. “It’s nice to run into you.”

“Don’t lie, you’re afraid of me.” Montparnasse pulls an ornate gold-tone flask out of his bag and presses it into Marius’s hand. “Here, take a drink.”

Marius, not knowing what else to do, drinks it. It proves to contain sweet red wine, which is better than he’d been expecting, yet still a little strong for 10AM. “Thank you,” he says, hoping his voice isn’t as strangled as it feels. Montparnasse takes the flask back and sips at it.

“Of course.”

“Would you like to get coffee?” asks Marius, because it seems to be the polite thing to do, and might keep Montparnasse from murdering him. Montparnasse’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Really?”

“Well, you don’t have to,” says Marius, feeling ridiculous. “I just thought I’d ask.”

“No, no, I’d really like to, actually.” Montparnasse smiles at him, just tentatively, but less sardonic than usual. “No one’s asked me to get coffee with them for a really long time.”

Marius finds that hard to believe. “You seem really popular, though.”

Montparnasse shrugs. “Most people are scared of me.”

Marius doesn’t want to agree with this, even though it’s true, but he can’t think of anything else to say, either, so he just leads Montparnasse to his favorite coffee shop and busies himself with ordering and finding a table until they’re both settled down, and he’s had some time to process this whole event in his head.

“I don’t think everyone’s scared of you,” he says. “I know Eponine isn’t. And Enjolras.”

“Those two aren’t scared of anyone,” says Montparnasse. “That doesn’t count. Don’t get me wrong, I love being intimidating, but sometimes I wish I had a few more people who actually liked me.”

Marius thinks he knows the feeling, at least somewhat. He tries to look sympathetic. “Yeah, I get that. Most people don’t actually like me, either.”

“It’s different,” Montparnasse protests. “I think people don’t like you because you don’t give them a chance to.”

“And isn’t that what you do? You’re always so brooding and acerbic, but I think it’s because you’re scared to be yourself!” Marius stops short, afraid of what he’s just said. What if Montparnasse gets offended and decides to stab him or something? It could very well happen. He wonders if he should apologize. “I’m sorry--” he begins.

“No.” Montparnasse waves his hand, a little less languidly than usual. “Can you tell me more?”

“Well…”

“Don’t hold back. I won’t be upset.”

“I think you pretend to be scarier than you are, because it’s easier to scare people than to actually be open with them.”

Montparnasse’s lip twitches, though it doesn’t look like he’s about to laugh. “I don’t want to seem vulnerable.”

“Exactly, but that’s the problem. It’s hard to be real with people when you won’t let them see the whole you.”

“Well, then, what about you?” Montparnasse points at Marius, eyes narrowed. “You’re telling me these wise things, but you don’t take your own advice. You’re totally closed-off.”

“I am not.”

“Are too.”

Marius scratches his head. He didn’t really want to get into deep personal introspection today. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s both just be real, then.”

“Yes.” Montparnasse proceeds to sit in complete silence, unmoving, for an awkwardly long amount of time. Marius is considering asking another question, just to see if he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open or something, but then he shakes himself, as if bringing himself out of his thoughts, and speaks. “In the name of being real, then, can I ask you for a labor?”

“Is that being real?”

“Well, no, I was going to ask you anyway. But I’ll tell you the truth about why I want it.”

Marius leans forward across the table. “What is it?”

“I want you to clean my house.”

“No,” says Marius immediately. “I just did that, with Grantaire, and just-- no. I’m never cleaning another house as long as I live.”

“It’s not like Grantaire’s house,” Montparnasse tells him. “It’s more like… I need you to clean my house of a specific problem.”

“Which is?”

“Ladybugs.”

Marius waits a beat before laughing to see if Montparnasse is joking. When it doesn’t seem as if he is, he waits a second more, just in case, and then cautiously speaks.

“Are you serious?”

“As anything. Marius, you have to help me. Everywhere I turn, I’m seeing one of those nasty little things. I feel like I can’t even go home anymore.”

Understanding dawns in Marius’s soul, sudden and hilarious. “Montparnasse,” he says slowly, “You’re scared of bugs, aren’t you?”

Montparnasse dives across the table to clap his hand over Marius’s mouth, blushing bright red all over. “Shh, shut up! Keep your voice down!”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” says Marius, after prying Montparnasse’s hand off. “You know, lots of people are scared of bugs.”

“Who said anything about being scared? I’m not scared!”

“Why do you want me to get rid of them, then?”

“Because… because fuck you, that’s why!”

If Montparnasse didn’t seem so genuinely distressed, Marius would be tempted to call Eponine and tell her about this newfound information, because this is one of the funniest things he’s ever experienced. But Montparnasse does seem genuinely distressed, and Marius isn’t that cruel of a person. So he holds the laughter inside and nods.

“I’d be happy to help you out.”

“Really? You don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind. I’m not afraid of bugs.”

“I’m not either!”

“Okay, whatever you say.” 

Montparnasse sneakily reaches across the table and slips a paper into Marius’s hand. “Read this after I leave.”

“Why not now?”

“Because. Okay, I'll see you later.” Montparnasse gets up from the table, pats Marius on the shoulder, and slinks out of the cafe, only pausing to slip a few dollars into the tip jar on the counter. This suave exit is ruined, however, as he crashes into someone walking into the cafe, attempts to walk away in haughty indignation, and immediately barrels into a pole. Marius, unable to help himself now, indulges in a round of laughter, thinking back on how Gavroche had described Montparnasse as a dork, and how fitting that descriptor really is. He might be a criminal, and he might seem intimidating, but he has his soft spots, too.

True to his word, Marius waits until Montparnasse wafts off down the sidewalk before unfolding the piece of paper and looking at it. It proves to contain an address, presumably to his apartment (although Marius already knows where it is, so he doesn’t understand why this is necessary), several phone numbers, a Yelp review of a local bar, and the instructions to meet Montparnasse at precisely 1:17 AM. Nowhere does it say what Marius is meant to do with the phone numbers, or why a clandestine meeting is necessary. 

Marius groans, putting his head on the table. What an inconvenient labor. Now he has to go ask Eponine what to do. 

\--

Eponine is busy. Marius figures this out after texting her frantically and receiving back a slew of skull emojis and the evocative and specific threat  _ bother me, and I’ll come to your house and kick your piano _ . Marius doesn't have a piano, but this somehow makes the warning all the more dire, so he decides to heed it and leave her alone. 

That’s why he finds himself texting Gavroche. He’d done a good job in dealing with Montparnasse last time, and he’s more likely to be helpful than any of the others. Marius sends him a message on his burner phone (the only contact number he’s been given), and waits anxiously for a reply, tapping his foot up and down. 1:17 AM is getting closer and closer. 

Finally, Gavroche replies with a simple  _ ask Enjolras _ . Marius, completely puzzled over this, sends back five question marks, but Gavroche doesn’t deign to answer this, and after another half-hour, Marius is forced to give up. He doesn't know why Gavroche suggested he ask Enjolras, and he really doesn’t want to, anyway, but he doesn’t think he has any other option here. If he’s going to help Montparnasse with this, it’ll be any port in a storm.

So, trying not to drag his feet, he goes back to campus and waits outside the library, where Enjolras usually studies between classes. He’ll have to come out sometime, and then Marius can pounce.

Fortunately, it doesn’t take too long. Within ten minutes, Enjolras comes out of the library with a stack of books under one arm, a cup of coffee in one hand, and his phone in the other. He’s not looking where he's going, and he appears to be trying to drink his phone and text on his coffee cup, so when a group of professors ambles into his path, he collides with them and falls to the ground, books and coffee flying. He looks up, astonished and indignant, as if he can’t believe such a thing could happen to him, and begins to clean up his things while still sitting on the ground. It's pretty funny, actually, but Marius isn’t laughing, because this sort of thing happens to him a lot, too, so he goes over to lend a hand.

“Hi, Enjolras. Do you need help?”

Enjolras squints up at him. “Marius? Did you see that?”

“I sure did.”

“Oh. Well, pretend it didn’t happen, please.”

“Sure.” Marius stoops down and helps Enjolras collect his books and phone. The coffee is a lost cause. “I'm glad to run into you,” he says, as if he hadn’t been waiting ten minutes for this very thing. “I wanted to ask you about something.”

By now, Enjolras has his books back, and he and Marius are walking down the steps of the library, fortunately without any further incident. Enjolras looks up at Marius, flat-eyed.

“Marius I love you but I swear to God, if I have to make  _ one more copy _ of that damn study guide--”

“What study guide?”

“The one from Blondeau’s class? The one that everyone and her uncle Francois has been asking me to write out for them?”

“I didn't know there was one,” says Marius weakly. What with all these labors, he’d almost forgotten about their midterm next week. “Enjolras, you human ray of sunshine, you beautiful sweet little golden bean, you wouldn't happen to want to share with a dear friend, would you?”

“I guess,” says Enjolras grumpily. “You have to buy me coffee, though.”

“Deal.”

“What did you want to ask me?” asks Enjolras three hours, two double espresso shots, and one meticulously handwritten study guide later. Marius looks up from his papers.

“What?”

“You said you wanted to ask me something when you met me outside the library. What was it?”

Oh, damn it. Marius didn’t really want to be reminded of that. He reluctantly pulls the paper Montparnasse had given him out of his pocket and hands it over. 

“Can you decipher that?”

“Why?”

“Gavroche said you could.”

“Really? Well, let me see.” Enjolras takes the paper and looks it over for a second. Then, he laughs. “It’s easy.”

“Sure it is,” grumbles Marius, who’s really had enough of “easy” things today. Enjolras sets the paper on the table and points at it earnestly.

“No, really, it is. See, this address is where you need to go to get supplies, these phone numbers are, ranked in order of importance, the people who will help you, and this bar here is where everyone goes to do shady business. It’s easy.”

“How could you possibly know all that?”

“Because this is the exact sort of note that I would leave someone. Why, is it weird?”

“Um, yeah. It’s really weird.”

Enjolras coos. It’s strangely adorable. “I’m weird!”

Marius isn’t really sure why he’s happy about this, or how he hasn’t known before, but he decides not to harp on it. Instead, he taps the paper. 

“How do I do this?”

“First, go to the address, and show them the note. Tell them what you’re doing, but don't be too honest, like don’t go  _ hi, I need to accumulate a great number of illegal items, can you help me?” _

“That's not what I’m doing,” says Marius. Enjolras ignores him. 

“Instead, you should be sort of vague, like  _ I was hoping for some help of an unconventional kind _ .Then you flash them some money, but make it seem accidental, so they can’t accuse you of trying to bribe them if they turn out to be straight-edge.”

“How much money?”

“My rule is fifty per item, unless it’s something that I could get anywhere, in which case I do twenty-five.”

“But what if they report you?”

“They won’t. It’s a mutually beneficial thing to stay low-- we get what we want, they don’t have to have their business practices called into question, it’s all good.”

“When do I give them the money-- wait, no, this isn’t even what I’m trying to do!” Marius shakes his head, as Enjolras tips his, surprised. “Enjolras, you really have to stop doing so much illegal stuff.”

“Why?”

“You’re going to get arrested.”

“I already have.”

There’s really no reply to this. Marius turns his attention back to his errand. “If I tell you what I’m doing, will you promise to keep it absolutely secret?

Enjolras’s eyes light up. “Of course. Is it something that could send you to jail?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s… Montparnasse.”

“Montparnasse?”

“Yeah. He wants me to clean the bugs out of his apartment.”

Enjolras shudders. “Ew, I’m so sorry.”

“Are you… scared of bugs, too?”

“I’m not scared. I just don’t like them, not one little bit.”

“You know, there’s no shame in being afraid of bugs. A lot of people are.”

Enjolras scrunches down in his chair, looking like a little kid who’s just been caught passing notes in class. “Don’t tell Combeferre,” he mutters.

“I won’t. But don’t tell anyone about Montparnasse, either. Especially not Eponine.”

“I won’t.”

“So. How do I go about doing this?”

“Okay!” Enjolras claps his hands together, sitting up inhumanly straight once again. “So, as I said, go to this address and ask them for equipment for getting rid of bugs. Then, begin making your phone calls. You’re going to want to start with the top of the list, because those are the ones who are most likely to help you. Tell them your problem, let them know if you have equipment, and see if they can help you.”

“Shouldn’t they have equipment themselves, if they’re able to help me out?”

“Maybe. But it’s better not to take chances, isn't it?”

Marius has to concede this point. He sits back, pondering the list in his hand. “So, basically it’s like one of your revolution jobs. But with bugs.”

“It sounds like it.”

“All right. Well, thank you for your help, Enjolras. I should probably go get started on this so I can meet Montparnasse on time.”

Enjolras gives him a rare smile and waves him on his way. He offers to walk with him, too, but Marius doesn’t really feel like walking with him, and so he refuses. Enjolras has already done enough for this bug cause. 

Marius procures the equipment with no trouble. He doesn’t even have to flash any cash; it’s all highly legal and above-board. He’s actually a little disappointed at how easy it is; Enjolras had made it sound like it would be a real challenge, and he’d been gearing himself up for that.

The phone calls are less easy. Marius isn’t the best with talking to people, and phone calls fall under the umbrella of Terrifying Experiences that he tries to avoid at all costs. Fortunately, the people he talks to are friendly, maybe a bit too friendly, in fact, because they make jovial sorts of jokes at his expense and embarrass him greatly, but this also somewhat helps to set him at ease. He only has to go partway down the list before he finds an exterminator who’s willing to help him out for free. 

As he goes through the steps that Montparnasse has outlined, though, he begins to wonder why he’s the one doing them. If Montparnasse had taken all the trouble to set everything up, it seems only natural that he would be able to follow through and finish the job himself. But maybe he’s too scared of bugs to even deal with the details of getting rid of them? It could be. Marius has no idea. 

When 1:17 AM rolls around, Marius finds himself inside the skeeziest bar he’s ever seen in his life (granted, he hasn’t seen that many bars, but he knows this one has to be at the top of the list for nastiness). He has a dubious-looking drink in front of him, and Montparnasse’s note clutched desperately in his hand like a ward against boozy and slightly sweat-scented evil. He’s looking around, trying as hard as he can to look hard-boiled and tough (though he has the uncomfortable feeling that he’s failing), when there’s a tap on his shoulder.

“Hey, baby. Come here often?”

Marius whirls around, ready to rebuff his apparent admirer, only to see that it’s Montparnasse, wearing a literal top hat, and looking pleased with himself. “I see you made it,” he says.

Marius nods. “Um— how are you?”

“I just made 200 bucks selling oregano to some privileged frat boys, so I’m doing pretty good. How are you?”

“I am,” says Marius, unsure of which adjective to use. He holds out the note. “I got in contact with the people.”

“Did you? That’s wonderful.”

“Uh, I guess it is. Anyway, I found someone who was willing to do the extermination for free. It’s that one.”

“They’re going to do it for  _ free _ ?” Montparnasse looks genuinely shocked. “Marius, what the hell. How did you manage that?”

“I just told them you were really scared of bugs, and he hopped right on it.”

Montparnasse doesn’t look particularly pleased at having his little secret aired out, but he nods, fairly graciously, all things considered. “Oh. Well, thanks, I guess.” 

“He’ll come to your place first thing in the morning. Is that okay?”

“Yes. Well, actually.” Montparnasse shifts uncomfortably and takes his hat off to start fiddling with the brim. “See, nobody will be there to let him in.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’ve been staying with Enjolras. I haven’t been home in three days.”

Marius digests this information. It’s kind of hilarious, but he’ll probably be murdered if he doesn’t agree to help out, so he nods. “If you give me the key, I can let him in.”

“Would you? That would be  _ so _ kind.”

“Sure. It’s not a problem.”

Montparnasse  continues to fiddle with his hat brim. He doesn’t meet Marius’s eyes. “Hey…”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t possibly be averse to me sleeping over, would you?”

The thought is somewhat terrifying. Marius imagines Montparnasse seeing the state of his bathroom and making a beeline for the door. Actually, that could be a strategy. He’ll have to remember that, because he doesn’t think there’s any way he can say no. He shrugs. 

“I mean, sure, you can come stay over. I know Courfeyrac won’t mind. But why? Is Enjolras annoying?”

“No, not at all,” says Montparnasse, with so much sincerity that it almost makes Marius feel bad. “I just hate to bother him for yet another day. He needs his space to himself again.”

It makes sense. But also,

“How is Enjolras as a roommate? I can’t imagine he’d be very good.”

“He’s very considerate,” says Montparnasse. “And he walks around in the most delicious little outfits. But he has strange habits.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, like he’ll talk to inanimate objects like they’re people— and then reply back. Or he’ll sit on the floor to eat instead of at the table.”

That is pretty strange. Marius thinks he could probably expect it of Enjolras, though. “I heard from Courfeyrac that he sleeps in the living room because he’s afraid of someone breaking into the house.”

“And of fire,” says Montparnasse solemnly. “Also, did you know that he drinks straight out of the coffee pot when he thinks Combeferre isn’t looking?”

“Ah. Yes, I did know about that.”

“Freaking disgusting.”

Marius doesn’t really know where to go from here. Sure, it would be fun to stand around and make fun of Enjolras for awhile, but it’s way past his bedtime, and he wants to get back so he can sleep. The only problem is, he doesn’t know how to broach this Montparnasse.

“So, it’s getting late,” he ends up saying. Montparnasse looks surprised. 

“It’s only 1:30.”

“Yeah. It’s  _ 1:30 _ .”

“Is that late for you?”

“Well, yes. I usually go to bed by 9:30.”

“Oh my.” Montparnasse titters genteelly begins a gloved hand. “You’re quite the little early bird, aren’t you?”

“I… guess?”

“Well then, let’s go, early bird. Time to get you back to your nest.”

They leave the bar together and stand around ineffectually on the street corner for awhile, mostly thanks to Montparnasse, who insists he needs for his outfit to be seen, but finally, they get into Marius’s car and head back. Marius has the irrational fear that Montparnasse will criticize his driving, and is absurdly careful, until Montparnasse lets it slip that he’s never driven a car in his life.

“I just never felt the urge, you know?”

“That’s okay,” says Marius. “Not everyone does. I mean, Enjolras can’t drive either.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, apparently he crashed Courfeyrac’s car when he was trying to learn, and ever since then, he’s refused to even get in the driver’s seat.”

“That’s kind of cute,” says Montparnasse musingly. “Well, I guess I have to learn to drive, then.”

“Why?”

“So I can drive him around. You know, if Grantaire hadn’t scooped him up, I would have. He’s a real catch.”

Marius doesn’t think Enjolras is a catch, not in the least. He’s the tiniest, scariest little ball of rage in the world, and he has a singularly mellifluous voice and is good at leading meetings, but he’s not someone to think of romantically at all. Now, his sister, on the other hand…

“Do you know Cosette well?” he asks. 

“Cosette?” Montparnasse smiles. “Yeah, she has an excellent fashion sense. She’s really not afraid to go outside social norms, you know?”

“I suppose,” says Marius, who knows absolutely nothing about fashion. Montparnasse laughs at him. 

“Well, I guess you actually don’t know. You’re the guy who unironically wears a fanny pack, after all.”

Marius puts a hand to his fanny pack defensively. “It’s handy.”

“Maybe, but I’d rather be inconvenienced than be seen with something like that.”

“What else do you know about Cosette?” Marius asks, determined to find out as much as he can from this particular fount of information, now that he has the chance. 

“Well,” says Montparnasse. “She’s really sweet, but she can fuck a fucker up. And she can beat Bahorel in arm wrestling.”

“ _ Really _ ?”

“Promise. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“So she takes after her dad, I guess.”

“Yup. Also, she knows how to fix cars.”

“All cars?”

“Who knows? I’ve never fixed a car in my life,” says Montparnasse, sounding proud.

Marius puts a hand over his heart, though he quickly has to take it off again to execute a sharp turn. “Cosette is amazing.”

“She is,” agrees Montparnasse. “Are you going to ask her out?”

“I don’t know. Do you think she would say yes?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her and find out?”

He’s so unsympathetic. Marius sighs.

“Haven’t you ever been in love?”

“Yes.”

“Then you— Wait, you  _ have _ ? With whom?”

“Someone we know. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“Cosette?”

“No.”

That’s weird. Marius scratches his chin, thinking. “Why not?”

Montparnasse just laughs at him, which doesn’t really answer the question, and grabs for the aux cord. 

“I’m going to play some music, okay?”

“Sure,” says Marius. “Why don’t you play some Backstreet Boys?”

“Oh, I love them.” Montparnasse plugs his phone in, and soon, the melodious sounds of  _ I Want It That Way _ are sounding through the car. “I’m impressed, Marius, you have good taste in music.”

“Thanks,” says Marius, absurdly pleased. There’s silence for a minute, then Montparnasse clears his throat.

“By the way, Marius, what size clothes do you wear?”

“What? Why do you want to know that?”

Montparnasse smiles at him, thin and sharp like a razor blade. “You shall see.”

—

The next day, Marius comes home from class to find Courfeyrac carefully laying outfits out on the floor. This sort of thing is normal behavior for Courfeyrac, but Marius figures he better ask anyway. 

“Courfeyrac, what’s this? What’s going on?

Courfeyrac looks up at him, eyes shining. “Marius, you wouldn’t believe it! Montparnasse stopped by the house and brought over all these outfits for you! And he said not to worry about the price tag. Isn’t he generous?”

“Yeah, generous,” agrees Marius doubtfully, wondering if he’ll be arrested if he wears these clothes in public where the robbed boutique owners will see them. He comes over to examine the latest ensemble, a silk shirt and jeans. “What is this, the 80s?”

“It’s amazing, is what it is,” says Courfeyrac sharply. “Don’t be ungrateful.”

“I’m not,” says Marius, and strangely, he isn’t. This is a wonderful thing that Montparnasse has done for him, and he’s grateful.

That is, until he finds the personalized thong.


	7. Bullssuet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cretan Bull

“I have a problem,” says Bossuet, one clear Saturday evening in Enjolras’s apartment. No one but Marius hears him, because Grantaire, Enjolras, and Montparnasse are having some sort of weird three-way mutual admiration session, and Joly and Musichetta are editing memes. 

“What’s your problem?” Marius asks, just as all conversation stops for a minute, in one of those often-inopportune pauses. 

Grantaire looks at him askance. “What’s  _ your _ problem, mate?”

“No, no.” Marius flaps his hands, trying to explain. “Bossuet had a problem, and I wanted to know what it was. You see.”

“That’s right,” says Bossuet. “I am plagued with a tragic woe, and only dear, sweet Marius would listen to me in my hour of need!”

“What’s your woe?” asks Enjolras rather excitedly. “Is it systematic? Is it regulatory? Should I find a corresponding court case?”

“No need for that. My woe is a smaller one than those grand-scale schemes you thwart. No, it is merely a woette, as you will.”

“What is it?”

“Forsooth! Listen, my friends, for I am cursed by a vile beast!”

“Why are you talking like a 40-year-old D&D player? asks Joly unsympathetically. “It makes you sound weird.”

“You wound me, sir!”

“Go duel about it.”

“What’s the problem?” asks Enjolras. “I want to help if I can.”

“You?”

“Well, yeah. Why not?”

“You…” Bossuet looks him up and down, then finally shakes his head. “No, you can’t help me.”

“Why not? I would do my best.”

“You’re too small. I need a stout and doughty warrior.”

Grantaire raises his hand. “I’ll do it.”

“You…” Bossuet looks at him. “No, no. Not you. You need to protect Enjolras. There is a great evil afoot in this kingdom, and our littlest mageling must be safe.”

“Then what about us?” asks Musichetta. “Surely, you would rely on your beloveds to stand by you in your hour of need.”

Bossuet gasps loudly. “But no! You might be hurt! I could never forgive myself.”

“So,” says Joly. “To whom were you addressing your problem?”

Bossuet grins. Marius feels a terrible sinking sensation in his chest that slowly settles into his stomach and makes him feel sick.

“Oh no,” he says. Bossuet comes closer, circling him like a shark with its prey. 

“Oh yes. Marius Pontmercy, I am calling in a labor!”

—

“So what is this labor?” asks Marius after dinner, while Montparnasse and Enjolras are cleaning up, and the others are drinking wine in the other room. Bossuet flicks a leftover grain of rice at him.

“Boop! Oh no, it’s nothing hard. Really.”

“Really? Because earlier, you were talking about how much woe it is that you have to deal with it.”

“To be fair, I did say woette,” points out Bossuet. “And I never said it was hard. I just said the others can’t do it.”

“That’s still bad! What is it, anyway?”

Bossuet looks down at his crossed hands. He begins to twiddle his thumbs. “Well, you see…”

“Are you scared of bugs?” asks Marius. “You would be in good company.”

“No, it’s not that,” says Bossuet. “It’s worse, in fact. You see, I’m scared of dogs.”

This doesn’t compute for a minute.  _ Scared _ and  _ dogs _ don’t belong in the same sentence. Marius cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean they have deep and knowing eyes that stare into my soul, and I know they have malice in their hearts! Everyone loves them so much, it has to be a conspiracy!”

“Okay,” says Marius, deciding not to tell Bossuet his fantasy of becoming a dog fosterer. “But what can I do about it?”

“I wouldn’t say you could or should, except it’s recently become a problem, and I feel like this is a concrete task that you can do.”

“What is it?”

“So you see,” says Bossuet. “There’s a giant pitbull that lives outside my building. He doesn’t touch Musichetta or Joly, unless I’m there, and then he attacks all of us. And he bites me every time I go past. It’s terrible, Marius. Just my luck!”

“That does sound terrible,” says Marius. “But I still don’t see what I’m going to do about it.”

“Well.” Bossuet considers this. “You know, I don’t know, either. But I feel like you can do something.”

“No, I can’t.”

Bossuet ignores him. “So, please have that hideous hellbeast gone by Friday, would you? I’m inviting everyone over, not that Joly and Musichetta know it yet, and I don’t want anyone to be attacked. Especially not Enjolras.”

“Why especially not Enjolras?”

“The dog is almost as big as he is. It wouldn’t be pretty.”

“Ah.” Marius thinks about it. Then, he looks over to where Enjolras is standing on a stool, debating passionately with Montparnasse about the merits of organic dish soap. He nods. “I see. But I don’t know. I feel like I’m not the right man for the job. Have you asked Jehan? He likes scary things, right?”

Bossuet shudders. “No way. I’m not asking him. Knowing him, he’d probably adopt it or something. No, this is all you, buddy.”

Wonderful. Marius takes a deep breath, and nods. “Fine. But if I die, you can’t have my stuff, okay?”

“Then who can?”

“Anyone but you.”

“You wound me!”

Marius just shakes his head, and goes to sit down. He has to formulate a good plan to get him through this ordeal. 

—

In the end, all it takes is a handful of dollar-store dog treats. 

At precisely 4:15 the next afternoon, Marius stuffs his pockets full of jerky, rawhide, biscuits, and a squeaky rubber chicken, and sets off on his errand. He has to fend off several interested strays as he walks the short ten minutes to Bossuet’s apartment, and he feels rather like some kind of modern-day pied piper, walking merrily down the street with a parade of dogs following him, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling, and he arrives at the apartment complex thinking proudly that his future as a dog-fosterer is off to a good start. 

As soon as he rounds the corner to the apartment’s front door, he sees the problem. There, sitting squat like an entitled rich white man, is the biggest, fattest bulldog he’s ever seen. Sensing his presence, it lazily swivels its head and stares him deep in the eyes, and in that moment, he knows the truest, deepest, most visceral fear he has ever felt in his twenty-five short years of life. There’s something  _ evil _ in the dog’s eyes, something primal and malevolent, something that should be staring at him across the summit of Mount Doom. Unable to help himself, he takes a step back.

“P-pardon.”

The dog nods its hoary head, like an ancient entity granting clemency. Marius reaches into his pocket with a shaking hand, grasps for the first treat he can find, and thrusts it out in front of him. Unfortunately, it’s the rubber chicken. The dog snorts contemptuously. Marius can practically hear it, speaking right into his brain with a deep, ferric growl.

_ You expect to gain my favor with a chicken? _

“I was hoping so,” stutters Marius. At a complete loss, he squeezes the chicken’s silicone ass, and a truly horrible wailing sound comes out, echoing around the block. Somehow, it gives him courage. “Hear my battle cry,” he says, or trumpets, rather, allowing his voice to ring with all the passionate fire that Enjolras probably uses to sing in the shower. The dog’s gaze narrows in on the chicken, interested. “Yes,” Marius says, squeezing the chicken’s ass again. “Come closer, foul varlet!”

The dog comes closer. It lopes up and sits down at Marius’s feet, now looking less like an Elder God, and more like an overgrown puppy. Encouraged, Marius squeezes the chicken again, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of jerky.

“Good… entity.” The dog practically unhinges its rapacious jaw and devours the jerky in a single bite. Marius looks down at his hand, wanting to make sure it’s still there. “Was that to your liking, oh great one?”

Apparently, it is, because the dog sits like a very good eldritch being and begs. Marius feels a thrill of pride rush through him. Look at that, he has a mythical creature begging at his feet. With this kind of power, maybe he can win Cosette’s love after all. Strength renewed, he steps back, waving the chicken in one hand, and a strip of jerky in the other. The dog stands up and follows him, wobbling slightly on its corpulent legs. He rounds the corner, then gives the dog its treat, only slightly wincing when its hot breath grazes his hand.

After that, it’s easy. Marius backs away, continuing to ply the creature with treats and chicken noises, until finally, he’s led it right where he’s planned— Jehan’s weird, completely black house. Never before has he been so grateful that Jehan refuses to live in an apartment like everyone else.

“Come on,” he says to the dog, who is now trotting obediently at his heels. He opens the gate (Jehan is less than concerned about security, claiming that he can fight any potential intruder with his broadsword), and ushers the dog into the backyard. There, he leads it to the base of the pomegranate tree— somehow, this feels right— and points at the ground.

“Sit.”

The dog sits, and looks up, wagging its tail. It may be a mythic monstrosity, but Marius has tamed it. He reaches into his pocket for his last biscuit, and lays it on the ground in front of the dog, along with the chicken.

“Farewell, oh great one,” he says. “Mayhap in future days, we will meet again.” He bows deeply, and the dog, as if in a show of hard-won respect, inclines its head. This is a moment that Marius won’t forget soon. He backs away, closing the gate in front of him, and turns to go. His last sight is the dog, staring as if into an abyss with burning eyes. It will definitely be a good companion for Jehan.

—

The kickback at Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta’s place goes splendidly. Bahorel brings five bottles of whiskey, Cosette makes cocktails and cookies (laced, of course, with the finest weed butter), Feuilly shows everyone how to do a proper striptease, and Enjolras, Montparnasse, and Grantaire excuse themselves to the bedroom, where they stay for at least two hours. Everyone pretends not to hear the sounds emanating forth. Marius leans back on the couch, one arm around Musichetta, and the other around Courfeyrac, and sighs contentedly. This is really what life is all about. If only his love was here, then things would be perfect.

“Where is Cosette?” he asks. Courfeyrac turns to him, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Aww, you miss her.”

“I mean, I’m just wondering, I…”

“It’s okay, man. I’m joking. I think she’s volunteering at the women’s shelter.”

Of course she is. Marius isn’t really into this whole social justice thing for its own sake, but he does respect how much Cosette and all the rest of them believe in it. He would never tell her that her activities aren’t worthwhile. 

“So she’s not coming over tonight?” he asks. 

Now Musichetta gets in on the conversation. “No, it’s an overnight thing. She’ll be there until 6AM tomorrow.”

“Wow.”

Sometimes, Marius wonders if he should be a little more selfless. Then, he remembers that he doesn’t really want to. It’s okay, though. All of his friends balance him out.

“So have you texted her yet?” asks Courfeyrac. Marius shakes his head.

“I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I just can’t. Would you text  _ your _ crush?”

“Obviously, I would.” Courfeyrac looks at him strangely. “You good, man?”

“I’m good.”

Musichetta reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. She opens it (Marius is really going to have to get a passcode) and waves it in his face.

“I’m going to text her.”

Marius makes a wild, desperate grab for his phone, but Musichetta holds it out of his way. She starts typing. Marius thinks he’s going to throw up.   
“Please don’t,” he says.

Musichetta looks at him in surprise. She must see that he seriously doesn’t want to text Cosette, because she erases the message and gives the phone back. “It’s okay,” she says. “But do try to text her at some point, yeah?”

“Fine.”

Marius doesn’t think he will. But that’s okay.

When Enjolras, Montparnasse, and Grantaire come out of the bedroom, starry-eyed and hand-in-hand, Courfeyrac jumps to his feet and shouts at the top of his lungs, singing praises to the “got-laid-parade.” Eponine and Bahorel join him, and soon, even Marius is chanting aloud and laughing as Grantaire looks proud, Montparnasse preens, and Enjolras tries blushingly to hide behind them both. Eventually, though, things settle down, and Eponine pulls out Cards Against Humanity, and everyone sits down to play. Enjolras goes on about how problematic some of the more offensive cards are, yet still manages to do very well, and Grantaire is shocked.

“How are you better at this than I am?”

“I play to people’s interests,” says Enjolras prissily. “You just try to make everything into a dick joke.”

“Uh,  _ yeah _ , because dick jokes are hilarious.”

Enjolras smiles up at him. “ _ You’re _ hilarious.”

Grantaire cups his face and kisses him tenderly, and it’s sweet, but it reminds Marius of his own lack of a love life. He looks away.

“Hey, man, you okay?” asks Courfeyrac, nudging him in the shoulder. Marius looks at him, trying to appear as normal as possible.

“Totally. Just, uh… wondering where you put the vodka?”

“That’s the spirit,” Courfeyrac sings out, then stops, delighted. “ _ Spirit _ . That’s a pun. Guys, I made a pun!”

“We better celebrate this with shots, then,” says Eponine. 

No one disagrees, and soon, all melancholy is forgotten, as the vodka starts to flow. Marius sips at his shot (no way is he going to down it like Courfeyrac does), thinking blissfully about how lucky he is. His friends really are the best.


	8. Horsing Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mares of Diomedes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for weed

Marius is studying in the library, listening to Toto’s Africa on repeat, and trying not to focus on the fact that  _ tort _ sounds like  _ torte _ or  _ torta _ and that he’s extremely hungry, when one of his earbuds is plucked out, and someone begins crooning the song instead. This is so surprising that Marius jumps straight into the air, letting out a supremely undignified screeching sound (much to the displeasure of everyone around him).

“What the—”

“Greetings and salutations.” 

Marius returns to his body to see that his unexpected visitor is none other than Jehan, dressed in a long, velvet cloak, and clutching a bottle of wine. 

“Hey,” he says weakly. “How did you get that in here?”

“Oh, this?” Jehan looks down at the bottle in his hand. “I merely carried it in. No one told me not to.”

“Really? Because Bahorel said they wouldn’t let him bring one in. He had to chug it outside.”

“Quite interesting.”

Jehan doesn’t say anything else, nor does he sit down. Instead, he just stands there, staring at Marius. It’s rather unnerving. 

“Can I help you?” Marius asks at last. Jehan smiles at him. 

“Oh yes indeed. You see, I have heard tell of your success in laboring fruitfully for our dear compatriots.”

Marius knows where this is going. “Okay. What can I do for you?”

“Ah.” Jehan looks at the bottle in his hand wistfully, takes a drink, then sets it on the table with a melancholic sigh. “This labor that I require will be truly Herculean. Maybe it would behoove me to spare you the bramble of caltrops it would surely saddle you with.”

Marius knows reverse psychology when he hears it, but he still can’t help but respond. “No, it’s okay. What is it?”

“Well.” Jehan sits down, flouncing his cape across the back of his chair like a concert pianist, and steeples his fingers under his chin. “You see, all my life, I have dreamed of finding a Bucephalus of my own, a hoofed companion, a fleet-footed paragon of equine grandeur. And yet, I have never found one. How tragic it is to know that I may not feel the wind on my back and the silky strands of mane between my fingers! What a trial it is to me, Marius, knowing that my life is that of a mere pedestrian, untouched by the charms of the stable.”

Marius rubs his temples. These labors are getting out of hand. “Are you telling me… you want a horse?”

“A horse, yes. A magnificent steed whom will be my boon companion.”

“You used  _ whom _ wrong.”

“Ah, yes! A stallion or a dam of great stature, one whom will fit my grandiose and statuesque corporeal form! Marius, my bosom friend, you must aid me in my hour of need.”

“I… don’t really know how.”

Jehan leans across the table and grasps Marius’s hand. He stares at him with cosmically deep eyes. “My son, you must not fear. Truly, you have the power within you.”

“I don’t think I do, actually.”

“Fear not, young one. The future looms as a beast in the wilderness.”

With this cryptic and somewhat threatening statement, Jehan gets up, swishes his cape around him, and power-walks out the door, leaving his bottle of wine on the table. Marius stares after him, somewhat in awe.

“Excuse me,” comes a voice at his elbow. He turns, hoping it’s not a spirit or demon or other type of supernatural being that Jehan has summoned to plague him, and feels his heart sink. Even worse— it’s the librarian, Ms. Louison. 

“Yes ma’am?” he asks, trying to be courteous. Ms. Louison doesn’t look appeased by his politesse.

“You can’t have that in here.”

“Can’t have—? Oh, that. That’s not mine.”

“Really. Then whose is it?”

“My friend, he just left.”

“I didn’t see any ‘friend.’ Lying isn’t a good look, son.”

Marius points to the door. “Seriously, you didn’t see him? He was wearing a cloak.”

“A cloak?” Ms. Louison frowns deeply. “Son, I think you’ve had quite enough. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off?”

Marius wants to protest his sobriety, but there’s no other argument he can make, so he sadly packs up his books and turns to go. His last sight is Ms. Louison picking up the bottle and draining it in one go.

“That takes care of that problem,” she says to herself. 

Marius leaves quickly after that. He doesn’t want to provoke someone with a liver like that.

—

“So, I have a problem,” Marius tells Eponine the next day, over a container of takeout and a Jehan-inspired bottle of wine.

“Don’t you always?” asks Eponine blandly. She twirls her chopsticks around a bite of noodles and dunks them in the bowl of sriracha that she keeps on the table for this express purpose. “Is it another labor?”

“Yeah, it’s Jehan this time.”

“Oh.” Eponine sets down her chopsticks and pulls out her phone. “What does he need? Montparnasse can get me weed, coke, shrooms—”

“It’s not drugs,” says Marius quickly. Eponine raises her eyebrows.

“Really?”

“Yeah, no. It’s worse. He wants a horse.”

Eponine pauses, phone still poised in her hand. “Sorry, did you say a  _ horse _ ?”

“Yeah. I think his exact words were ‘a fleet-footed Bucephalus’ or something like that.”

“Well, that’s novel.” Eponine thinks for a minute, then nods decisively. “Okay, I have a plan. But you have to listen to the whole thing first, okay? No value judgements.”

A little nervous as to what this plan could possibly entail, Marius nods. Eponine stabs her chopsticks into a stalk of broccoli and clasps her hands together under her chin.

“Now, Marius, sometimes the law is unjust. And when the law is unjust, it is a citizen’s responsibility to break it.”

“Yeah, Enjolras tells me that all the time.”

“And as citizens of the world, we must be prepared to lay our lives on the line to protect our civil liberties.”

Marius doesn’t like the sound of this. He doesn’t want to lay his life on the line. “Can’t we just… I don’t know,  _ not _ do that?”

“But how would we acquire our fleet-footed Bucephalus that way?”

“We could wait for one to show up?”

Eponine cocks her head, considering. “You know, that might actually work. Jehan says he found a random dog in his yard the other day, and it hasn’t left his side since.”

“Ah. Right.”

“It’s just the sort of thing that happens to Jehan. Still, though, I think we should stick to my plan.”

“Which is?”

“Murder.” Eponine waits for just a beat too long, until Marius starts to worry, and then she laughs and slaps him on the back. “Just kidding. It’s nothing but petty theft.”

Marius groans. “You want to steal a horse? That’s more than just  _ petty theft _ , isn’t it?”

“You’re the law student. You tell me.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“Okay,” says Eponine, ignoring this. “So here’s the dealio. We’re going to borrow Enjolras’s dad’s huge-ass van and take the seats out. We’ll drive down to that illegal pet shop that doesn’t have a license for most of its animals, and we’ll take their horse and put it in the van. Then we’ll drive to Jehan’s house and put it in his backyard.”

Marius feels vaguely weak in the knees, and he’s not even standing up. “Eponine, that’s so illegal. They’re definitely going to catch us.”

“No, they won’t. And even if they do, what can they do about it? They can’t get the authorities involved without getting their business shut down because of their own illegal behavior.”

“But…”

“Great. I’m glad you like my plan.” Eponine pats him on the head, and turns back to her phone. “I’m texting Montparnasse to come and meet us in an hour,” she says, way too casually. “We can probably have this done by 3AM.”

Does no one care about Marius’s bedtime? He sighs and groans and tries to make that offended cartoon sound that Enjolras does when someone messes up his hair. Unfortunately, Eponine seems completely unsympathetic.

“You got yourself into this mess,” she says. “Now, we’re getting you out of it. Be grateful.”

Marius makes the cartoon sound again. He’s not grateful at all.

—

At around 1:30, Montparnasse and Enjolras show up at Marius’s apartment. They’re both wearing black, although the effect is somewhat undercut by Enjolras’s shining golden hair and Montparnasse’s glittery cravat and bright-red shoes. They look pleased with themselves, though, and greet Marius and Eponine with enthusiasm.

“So, Eponine said we’re going to be exercising our right to rebel and fight for our civil liberties,” says Enjolras with an alarming amount of cheer. Marius looks at Eponine.

“Did you even tell him what we’re doing?”

“No. I thought you did.”

“Why would I— never mind. Okay, Enjolras, I have to be straight-up with you. We’re stealing a horse.”

Enjolras twists a silky curl around his first finger, head canted to one side. “Like… metaphorically?”

“Unfortunately, no. We’re actually stealing it.”

“Why?”

“Because Jehan wants it.”

“Oh.” Enjolras thinks about it for a second, then nods. “Okay.”

Marius is somewhat flabbergasted by his easy acceptance of what should really not be a viable plan in the first place. “That’s it? You’re just going to go along with it?”

“Why not? I’m sure Jehan will treat that poor horse better than those assholes at the pet shop. That’s the one you’re stealing, right?”

“How did you know?”

“I mean, there aren’t that many horses around here.”

He’s right, but Marius is still a little worried about his morals. “You’re really okay with this? You’re going to be an accessory to a full-blown crime.”

Montparnasse holds up a finger and waggles it back and forth, tutting. “No, no. He’s not just an accessory. He’s the whole outfit. Aren’t you, kitten.”

Enjolras smiles up at him, big eyes alight, and that’s all it takes. Before Marius can stop them with any arguments for decency and decorum, they’re full-on making out. 

“Anyway,” says Eponine, casually pulling them both into the apartment and shoving them towards the couch, “I’m going to go put on my favorite crime outfit. You’re welcome to come and see if any of my clothes will fit you.”

Marius isn’t sure that they will, but he’s more than happy to get away from the disgusting spectacle that Enjolras and Montparnasse provide, so he follows Eponine into her room and obediently hunts through her closet while she turns her back and changes into a black outfit that he’s definitely seen her wear during supposedly non-crime related activities.

“Do you only wear that for breaking the law?” he asks. Eponine makes a sound of assent.

“I love it. It just puts me right in that fuck-the-authority mood.”

“So all those times you were wearing it before…”

“I was doing something illegal without you knowing it. Yeah.”

This is disheartening news. Are all of Marius’s friends hardened criminals? He hides his disappointment admirably, and continues to look through the closet until he’s found a pair of black jeans that look like they might fit, and an oversized black t-shirt with sleeves so long that they hide his hands. He feels a little bit like a baby, but he supposes he sort of is, at least in the realm of crime, so it’s fitting. He turns his back and changes, not even bothering to send Eponine out of the room first. They’ve known each other too long to stand on ceremony, and besides, it’s not like she’s going to be attracted to him or anything. That would be weird.

“Shall we go?” says Eponine, tightening her high ponytail. “Come on, let’s go disturb the lovebirds.”

Marius is definitely okay with that, because they have no business being so romantic on the brink of a terrible adventure like this, so he follows her out of the room and over to the living room couch, where the lovebirds are indeed in need of disturbing.

“Enjolras, put your shirt back on,” says Eponine. “Montparnasse, fix your lipstick. We have a horse to steal.”

“Yeah,” agrees Marius, having nothing more salient to add. Enjolras and Montparnasse slowly sit up, not even having the grace to look embarrassed. 

“We may need to steal a horse,” begins Montparnasse. “But…”

“Shut up,” says Eponine, rolling her eyes. “I just know you’re going to say something like  _ but Enjolras has already stolen my heart _ or something like that.”

Montparnasse pouts, but immediately cheers up when Enjolras whispers something in his ear and kisses his cheek. “It’s cool,” he says. “We’re cool. It’s all good.”

“Okay.” Eponine grabs her coat and steps into her black boots, not bothering to zip them up all the way. “Let’s go, guys. We need to get a move on.”

This is how Marius finds himself manning the getaway car with Enjolras sitting shotgun and talking a mile-a-minute while Montparnasse and Eponine sneak into the pet shop and disturb the status quo.

“...and that’s why I think it’s so important to maintain a proper system of checks and balances to prevent overbearing governmental violations of human rights,” Enjolras is saying, tapping one elegant finger absentmindedly on the gearshift. “However, the fact is that checks and balances must be maintained carefully, since, as the saying goes, who watches the watcher? Therefore…”

Marius has no idea what he’s saying. He tuned him out somewhere around his second sentence. It’s not like Enjolras, angel of extemporaneity, needs any encouragement, though; Marius knows from experience that he’ll keep on talking until someone or something comes along and makes him shut up. 

“What do you think?”

Ah, crap. He asked a question. Marius pretends to think about it, while desperately trying to recall anything he just said. 

“Do you really think that about a tripartite government?” he asks eventually, discomfited by Enjolras’s luminous, beautiful eyes, trained unblinkingly on him like two particularly mesmerizing headlights. Enjolras perks up.

“You bring up a good point. It’s true, our current governmental structure is prone to abuses by the rich and powerful, creating a sort of three-ring oligarchy, if you will. This is difficult to mediate, but…”

Fortunately (or unfortunately), Eponine and Montparnasse come back at this point, accompanied by whickers and snorts and an ominous sort of clopping noise. Marius isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“You got the horse,” he says.

“That sounds like a euphemism for drugs,” says Enjolras, who’s probably never taken anything that hasn’t been prescribed to him in his entire life. Eponine reaches in through the window and pats him on the shoulder.

“You’re darling.”

Somehow (and Marius is very fuzzy on the details), they manage to get the horse into the van. It’s a little pony-sized horse, fortunately, and not one of the grandiose warrior steeds that Marius had been expecting, but even so, it’s difficult to fit it inside, and to get it to behave. Enjolras ends up having to sit on the floor next to it trying to calm it down, because of course his magical charming Disney powers extend to animals as well. 

“Good horsie,” he coos, stroking its creepily long nose. “You’re just going to help us overthrow our oppressors, aren’t you? Yes, you are! What a good horse.”

Marius doesn’t really think it’s a good horse, but he doesn’t want to say anything, just in case it speaks human language and decides to defend its honor by clobbering him with its hooves or something. Instead, he turns to Eponine. 

“Was it hard to steal it?”

Eponine tosses her head in a remarkably horse-like manner. “Please. You’re talking to a master thief here. And Montparnasse.”

“I’m a master thief,” protests Montparnasse. Eponine pats him soothingly on the leg.

“Of course, dear. Whatever you say.”

“I  _ do _ say.”

“Hey,” says Enjolras, leaning up and setting his chin on Marius’s shoulder. “I think Bertrand wants an apple.”

Marius gently pushes him off. “Who’s Bertrand?”

“The horse.”

“Why did you name it?”

“Well, I had to call it something. I thought I might as well name it after Bertrand Russell.”

He’s so weird. Marius shakes his head. “I don’t think any of us have apples.”

“But he wants one.”

“How do you even know that?”

“He told me.”

Okay. Marius isn’t going to argue with that. Instead, he nods at Eponine to open Montparnasse’s man-purse (garnering a yelp and a slug on the arm) and look inside. Maybe there will be something in there that can satiate Bertrand’s appetite. 

“Why are you looking through my stuff?” asks Montparnasse, peeved. “I value my privacy, you know.”

“She’s looking for an apple.”

“Too bad. I only have pomegranates. Do you think Bertrand would eat pomegranates?”

Marius decides not to question why Montparnasse is carrying pomegranates around with him. He shakes his head again. “They’re probably toxic or something.”

“Then, let’s stop at the 7/11 down the street from Jehan’s house,” says Enjolras. “I’m sure they have apples.”

Eponine groans. “Seriously? He doesn’t need it!”

“He does. I’ll buy us some beer, too, if that helps.”

“Okay, fine.”

So Marius pulls into the 7/11 parking lot, and goes inside to buy apples and beer with the wad of cash that Enjolras gives him. There’s a lot in there. Marius isn’t sure how much Enjolras thinks apples cost, but he’s given him enough to stock up a small wholesale supplier. 

“You makin’ a pie?” asks the cashier, as Marius sets his armful of apples on the counter. Marius shakes his head.

“It’s for a horse.”

“Ah.” The cashier winks badly and inclines her head. “I get it. It’s for a ‘horse.’ Well, be safe, and have fun.”

Marius doesn’t have the energy to explain, so he just pays, takes his change, and goes out to the car where Eponine, Montparnasse, Enjolras, and Bertrand are waiting.

“The cashier thought I was using these to smoke marijuana or something,” he says, as he gets into the driver’s seat. 

Eponine takes an apple and looks at it thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea. Why don’t we all get high tonight?”

“I think I’m good.”

“But you got so many apples. You must subconsciously want to make pipes out of them.”

“No, I don’t.”

Eponine scoffs and turns around to point at Enjolras. “Hey, Blondie. Wanna learn about weed?”

“Oh.” Enjolras turns to Bertrand and pats him on the nose. “What do you think, Bertie? Should we get high?”

“Horses can’t get high, stupid.”

“Why not? They have lungs, right?”

“I think they should be able to,” says Montparnasse, joining the debate. “After all, what is weed but a drug?”

“Yes,” says Marius. “That’s exactly what it is.”

Everyone ignores him. Enjolras twirls a lock of hair around his finger and cocks his head, eyes wide, while he thinks about it, and Eponine and Montparnasse stare at him. Finally, he smiles, bright and innocent and sweet.

“Let’s do it.”

“Great.” Eponine takes a bite of the apple in her hand, then throws it to Enjolras so he can feed it to Bertrand. “Let’s go drop off this horse, and then we can get blazin’.”

Dropping off the horse is easier said than done. For one thing, it’s extremely difficult to get him out of the car. Marius has to lure him out with apples, which is terrifying, since apparently, horse’s mouths are much bigger and more threatening than he had ever thought, and Montparnasse and Eponine have to go behind him and push him out from the back. Enjolras stands next to Marius and makes various soothing and encouraging noises. Finally, the horse is free, and now they’re all faced with the joyous task of getting him to stay in Jehan’s garden.

“Should I stay here all night?” asks Enjolras in his ridiculous martyr-like way, settling down on the bench beneath the pear tree. Eponine smacks him on the side of the head.

“No, if anyone should stay, it should be Marius. But I don’t think anyone has to. Let’s just leave him here and hope for the best.”

“But what if he gets out? He might roam the streets and get hit by a car.”

“I don’t think he’s going to get hit by a car. He’s too big.”

“But…”

“Come on, dumbass. Let’s go get high.”

It takes awhile to convince him, but finally, Montparnasse picks him up, carries him to the car, and bodily straps him in, and he doesn’t argue much after that, although he does have a lot to say about the whole venture. By the time they’ve reached Eponine’s apartment, Marius is starting to wish that they’d left him with Bertrand after all.

“I’ll just let you go now,” he says, jumping out of the driver’s seat with a stretch and a yawn. “It’s way past my bedtime, so...”

“Bedtime, schmedtime,” pronounces Eponine loudly. “Come on in and get high with us.”

Is this peer pressure? Is Marius really being peer-pressured right now? He thought he’d left that behind in undergrad. “I don’t want to,” he says. “It’ll make me throw up, I know it will.”

“Why?”

“Because it did last time.”

“You must have had the wrong strain,” says Eponine. “Come on in and try the one I have. It’s a hybrid.”

“A hybrid of what?”

Eponine wiggles her fingers. “Of magic fun times.”

Marius hadn’t really been expecting a good answer from her anyway. He sighs, letting go of all the morals he once knew, and nods. “Fine.”

“Excellent. Dare I say… effervescent.” Montparnasse puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes just a little too hard, so that his rings dig in. “Let us go partake.”

“You sound like Jehan.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah. The tone, the verbiage…”

Montparnasse looks thoughtful. He stands stock-still for a moment, then declaims, “I knew of a man who got high, for very much weed he did try. But so stoned was he, that historians agree, he made his own frontal lobe cry.”

Enjolras claps lightly. “How wonderful. I didn’t know you could make poetry.”

“That’s not poetry,” says Eponine. “I’ll show you poetry.”

“Okay,” interrupts Marius, before she decides to start spitting out some spoken word. “Why don’t we go in and toke up? It’s getting late.”

“It’s 4AM.”

“Like I said.”

So, together, the four of them go inside. Eponine flicks on the light, cheerfully heedless of her roommates’ protests, and grabs her smoking paraphernalia. Marius doesn’t know how to use any of it, but fortunately, he doesn’t have to admit this, because Enjolras doesn’t know either, and is completely unashamed about showing it.

“How do you roll a joint?” he asks, once they’re all sitting on the roof of the apartment building. “Is it like rolling a spring roll?”

“Sort of,” says Montparnasse. “Except, not at all. Here, let me show you.”

“I admire you.”

Montparnasse rolls joints for everyone, and shows Marius and Enjolras how to smoke them. After awhile, though, he decides to teach Enjolras how to shotgun, and from then on, things become a little too R-rated (or in this case, Montparnasse-rated) for Marius’s good taste. But, it’s easy to ignore them, especially since Eponine has now started telling jokes, and they’re the funniest jokes that Marius has ever heard in his life.

“You’re so hilarious,” he says, after one particularly bawdy retelling of the chicken crossing the road. “I can’t believe I never realized that before.”

“I have many talents,” says Eponine, raising and lowering her eyebrows in a way that might have been coordinated, were she not so high. “But you do, too. You’re like, a Renaissance man, man.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I mean, think of all these labors you’re doing. It’s amazing. You’re really accomplishing a lot these days.”

Marius leans back on his elbows, thinking about it. He really has been doing a lot, quite a bit of which is outside his skill set. He’s not one for self-aggrandizement, but he really thinks this merits a little pat on the back. 

“I’m doing good,” he says. 

And even through the hazy cotton-fluff filling his smoked-up head, he knows it’s true.


	9. Heart of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Belt of Hippolyta

Marius stares dismally into his virgin mojito, idly turning a toothpick in between his fingers. This is it— he’s going to get kicked out of law school, and the world will never be the same again. He’s just taken a completely disastrous exam, and even Enjolras’s study guide hadn’t helped him. It had been  _ horrific _ . He’s pretty sure some people had been crying mid-test.

“Alas,” he mumbles to himself, and gets a strange look from the bartender, whom he ignores. She just doesn’t get what it means to be in the depths of despair.

He’s contemplating flagging her down, though, and asking for another drink, when a familiar dulcet voice rings in his ears like the most melodious of unpleasant sounds.

“Hi, Marius.”

Oh, great. Not now. “What do you want, Enjolras?”

“I’m just saying hi.”

“Fine. Hi. Why are you even here? I thought you didn’t like bars.”

Enjolras takes a sip of his drink, completely nonchalant. “I do sometimes. What are you drinking?”

“Virgin mojito. You?”

“Virgin vodka cranberry.”

“So… just cranberry?”

“Yeah. But with wine.”

Does he know what  _ virgin _ means? Marius decides not to ask. “How did you feel about that exam?” he asks. Maybe they can commiserate together.

“Oh, the exam?” Enjolras laughs just the tiniest bit. “I was so relieved. I thought it was going to be hard.”

Okay, he can go to hell. Marius turns back to his drink and tries to ignore the shimmering golden hair at his periphery.

“Did you want something?” he asks eventually, knowing that Enjolras is probably staring at him unblinkingly like some kind of tawny cat. “Or can I go back to wallowing in my stupidity in peace?”

“You’re not stupid,” Enjolras tells him with great earnestness. “You’re very smart, in fact. Do you remember when Blondeau was talking about the legal right of—”

“I don’t care,” Marius interrupts, not wanting to be comforted. “It’s nice of you, but why don’t you go over there and finish drinking with… holy shit.”

“What?”

“ _ Cosette.  _ You’re here with Cosette.”

“Yeah.” Enjolras tilts his head to one side, puzzled. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s the opposite of a problem. But, uh, I’m going to the bathroom. Okay, bye!”

“Wait what—”

Marius ignores him. He’s already halfway to the dingy, unkempt, single-occupant bathroom. He has to prepare himself if he’s possibly going to run into the love of his life.

_ All right, Marius. Deep breaths. _

Has he always looked so nerdy? Maybe he should take off the fanny pack. But then, where would he put it? He doesn’t want to lose it; it was a gift from Joly, and it has cute little pointed green leaves on it. No, he better keep it on. Besides, maybe Cosette would like it. If Montparnasse is right, she’s into fashion herself.

Smoothing his hair again and again, Marius continues to regard himself in the mirror, staring until he feels weird about inhabiting his own body. He taps the glass questioningly, half-wondering if there’s a Mirror Marius on the other side. What would Mirror Marius be like? Would he have more luck with the ladies? Probably. It’s not like the bar is very high.

He checks his phone, and sees that it’s been about ten minutes. Maybe he should go out there; he doesn’t want Cosette to think he has bathroom problems or anything. But no, he can’t. He has to pull himself together first. There’s no way he can go talk to the love of his life while he feels jittery like this.

Just as he’s turning on the faucet to splash his face, though, there’s a knock on the door, and a concerned voice calling his name.

“Marius? Are you okay in there?”

Damn it. “I’m fine, Enjolras. Go away.”

“But you’ve been in there an awfully long time, and there’s a line outside. Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Okay, I’m coming in.”

Before Marius can think to block the door with the trash can or something, the handle turns, and Enjolras comes inside, apparently having picked the lock. The harsh lights gleam and bounce off his hair, and make his sharp cheekbones even sharper. It’s not fair; only he could look so pretty under fluorescent light.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Marius makes a face at him. “I’m fine. Why are you in here?”

“To check on you. And also to get you out. There seriously is a line outside.”

“I don’t care. I need to get myself together here. And you’re not helping.”

“Oh.” Several different emotions flash over Enjolras’s face, curiosity, amusement, interest, and the tiniest bit of trepidation. “Marius, do you like Cosette?”

Marius wants to either laugh or cry, or maybe both at once. What a time for Enjolras to finally develop super emotion-sensing abilities. He turns away from those wide, beautiful eyes, trying to cobble together a response that won’t get him kicked in the pants.

“Okay, so I know she’s your sister…” he begins. Enjolras pats him on the shoulder.

“It’s okay. She can make her own decisions. And she might not even like you back, anyway.”

Ah yes, the famous Enjolras Honesty. Marius groans. “Can you please go away?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you hanging around here.”

“Oh.” Enjolras nods, only looking the tiniest bit hurt. “Okay, bye.” And with this, he turns around and leaves.

Unfortunately, though, he doesn’t close the door quickly enough, and all the people waiting outside see Marius standing in front of the sink and very obviously not using the bathroom for its intended purpose. There’s a roar of outrage from someone, and a big, burly man starts to stalk forward with great purpose, as if intending to throw Marius out by force if need be. Marius decides that he better not stick around and wait for this to happen, so he dodges out the door and goes over to the bar to face his fears and talk to—

Wait. Where did she go?

Marius pulls out his phone to text Enjolras.  _ Where are you _ , he types out as quickly as possible.  _ You guys just disappeared! _

_ You said you didn’t want me here, _ Enjolras texts back within a few minutes.  _ So I went to another bar, and Cosette said she wanted to come, too _ .

This whole situation is a debacle of the highest order. Marius sinks down onto the nearest unoccupied bar stool and bangs his head on the counter a few times before texting back,  _ Enjolras, did you tell Cosette that I wanted you to leave? _

_ Yes,  _ comes the reply. Marius bangs his head on the counter again. Now Cosette is going to think he’s a dick, and all because Enjolras can’t parse the meaning of sentences like a normal person. He hesitates over his phone, trying to decide what to write (several expletives spring to mind, but he manages to restrain himself), and pokes idly at the emoji keyboard. 

_ I didn’t mean for you both to leave the bar _ , he finally says.  _ I just didn’t want you hanging around and making me nervous. Can you tell Cosette that I’m not a raging asshole, please? _

_ Okay _ , Enjolras replies, and then, just a beat later,  _ She says she knows _ .

Marius slumps down to the counter, boneless with relief. Enjolras had almost messed everything up, but now the game is still on. He can do this. Still, he thinks, as he pays for his drinks and starts his car to drive home, he should probably do something about this, even though it hadn’t been his fault. He can’t have Enjolras thinking he’s rude and influencing Cosette’s view of him, even by mistake.

Well, in this case, there’s only one thing to do. A labor it is.

—

Marius knocks on the door to Enjolras’s apartment the next afternoon, a little more nervous than seems necessary. What if Enjolras decides to be a bitch about it? He very well could. Or, more likely, what if he requests something completely impossible? Knowing him, he’ll probably ask for the ratification of a new constitution or something. 

“Hi,” he says, as soon as the door swings open. “I know there was a misunderstanding yesterday, so—”

“Hello, Marius,” interrupts Combeferre, who’s standing in the doorway and who is very obviously not Enjolras. “I don’t know anything about a misunderstanding, but won’t you come in?”

Marius steps inside, and goes over to the couch, where Enjolras is curled up, wrapped in a blanket and snoozing, pink-cheeked and peaceful. He’s about to sit down, when Combeferre clears his throat behind him.

“Would you mind taking off your shoes?”

“Oh, right.” Marius chuckles awkwardly (it doesn’t help the situation at all), and goes to put his shoes by the door. Now sock-footed, he comes back to the couch and perches on the very edge. “So,” he says. Combeferre nods, and sits down as well.

“Yes, you were saying something about a misunderstanding?”

“Oh, well, it had to do with Enjolras, but I guess he’s asleep, so…”

“We can wake him up,” says Combeferre. “Just, watch your face. He tends to punch.”

He shakes Enjolras gently by the shoulder, calling in a sing-song for him to rise and shine. “Marius is here! Don’t you want to talk to him?”

It reminds Marius of how one might wake a young child, and it’s pretty funny, but not as funny as the moment when Enjolras wakes, sits up, tousle-haired and confused, points (not at anyone or anything, as far as Marius can tell), and says, in a sweet, high, sleep-cracked little voice, “That’s where they hid the bodies.”

“What were you dreaming about?” asks Marius curiously, as Combeferre puts an arm around Enjolras to keep him from lying down again, and starts to smooth his hair with the other hand. Enjolras squints at him.

“Marius?”

“Yeah, I came to visit you.”

“You can have some tea,” Enjolras tells him with deep solemnity. “I made some two days ago. It’s ginger.”

“I don’t think he wants two-day-old tea, Enjolras,” says Combeferre. “I don’t think you should be drinking it, either.”

“It’s okay. Ginger kills germs.”

“So,” says Marius, while Combeferre pulls out his phone to research this statement further, “I hope you’re not mad about yesterday.”

“Why? What happened yesterday?”

“Well, you thought I was trying to kick you out of the bar.”

Enjolras looks puzzled. “Why would I be mad about that?”

“Well— I mean— I don’t know, doesn’t it seem like you should be?”

“No. I know a lot of people don’t like having me around. I don’t take it personally.”

That’s either the saddest or the most mentally healthy thing Marius has ever heard, and he’s not sure which it is. Just in case it’s the sad option, he carefully puts his hand on top of Enjolras’s head and pats him. The hair there is so warm and soft and silky that it feels like the physical representation of a shampoo ad. 

Enjolras makes a (strangely adorable) purring sound and presses back against Marius’s hand like a cat. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Marius doesn’t know what to do. Is he supposed to keep petting him? Is that weird? His hair really does feel nice.

“I want to do a labor for you,” he says, finally, and removes his hand. Enjolras looks up at him. 

“What? For me?”

“Yeah. I think it’s your turn by now.”

“Oh no, but that would be a waste. See, there are so many other things in the world that you could be doing, so many good causes you could contribute to, and wasting your time on doing something for me would just be ridiculous.”

Part of Marius wants to agree with him and leave, but he knows he can’t do that. This is Cosette’s brother here, and if anyone needs to have a labor done for them, it’s him. So he shakes his head insistently, and tries to speak in a convincing tone.

“No, you deserve good things, too. It’s okay to accept things for yourself sometimes.”

“Not really,” says Enjolras earnestly. “Really, the only thing that matters about me is my dedication to the Cause. I’m not important. If you want to keep on doing labors for the others, that’s good, because they deserve all the goodness in the world, but don’t waste your time with me.”

Marius sits back on the couch, thinking. Sure, it would be easy to agree, leave the apartment, and not look back. He wouldn’t particularly mind that. But what if Cosette found out? She might think he was heartless, or rude, or complicit in reinforcing her brother’s low self-esteem. That wouldn’t be good; she probably wouldn’t want to date him in that case. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’m going to do a labor for you whether you like it or not. And if you won’t tell me what you want done, I’ll just pick something at random.”

“Please don’t,” Enjolras tells him. “I would feel terrible, and it would just be a waste of everyone’s time. Why don’t you go volunteer at a soup kitchen instead? I go to one in downtown, and it really needs more volunteers.”

“I’ll pass. What do you want me to do for you? Come on, there has to be something.”

Enjolras sticks his chin out. Marius has never seen anyone look more stubborn. “No.”

“I would leave it,” advises Combeferre. “Enjolras is very hard to budge when he makes his mind up on something.”

Marius sighs. Of course Enjolras wouldn’t make this easy on him. He stands up and moves to the door. “Fine. But if I do something without telling you, you can’t stop me.”

“Yes I can,” argues Enjolras, which doesn’t really make sense. Marius just rolls his eyes at him and starts tying his shoes.

Combeferre gets up from the couch as well and helps Marius out his coat on. “I’ll walk you down,” he says. 

Together, they make their way downstairs and into the parking lot. Combeferre doesn’t say anything until they’ve reached Marius’s car, and it’s starting to feel awkward, but then he reaches out and pats him on the shoulder. 

“You’re a good man, Marius.”

Somehow, his words carry a lot of weight. Marius feels like he’s been inducted into a noble brotherhood of good men on his commendation alone. 

“Thank you,” he says. “But I didn’t—”

“Not yet,” agrees Combeferre. “But you will. You’ll do something for Enjolras, and really, that’s one of the best things you could do. The poor boy isn’t used to people doing things for him, and maybe if you do something, it could help him see that he’s deserving of the good things that he believes in for everyone else.”

That seems a little heavy-handed, and a bit too touchy-feely for Marius’s good taste, but he shrugs, trying not to look dismissive.

“I guess. I don’t know what to do, though.”

“I do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You see, the last time he got arrested, they kept his gold necklace. He used to wear it every day, but they won’t give it back, because they don’t like him. He would never admit it, but he’s very sad about it. You should go down there and steal it back.”

Well, sure. Marius has already stolen a horse, gotten rid of a ladybug infestation, and cleaned Grantaire’s apartment. What’s breaking into a police station in the grand scheme of things? He slaps Combeferre on the back.

“No problem.”

“Good.” Combeferre smiles at him, warm and gentle and full of kind good-will. “Don’t worry, Marius. We’ll get him a sense of self-worth yet.”

“Right.” Marius clears his throat, trying not to feel awkward. “So, uh, thanks. I guess I’ll be heading out now.”

“Yes, yes.” Combeferre clasps his hand firmly in both of his own, still smiling kindly. “By the way, Marius, if you ever kick Enjolras out of a bar— or anywhere— again, I will come and find you and make you eat fifteen consecutive packets of mayonnaise.”

How did he ever get to be so scary? Marius pulls his hand away. “Okay.”

“All right. Have a good night, now!”

“You too,” Marius manages weakly. He gets into his car and drives away without even bothering to strap his seatbelt. He doesn’t want to spend any more time around here than he has to.

—

The next day, Marius calls up Cosette’s dad. He still has a landline, so it’s easy to find him in the phone book. The harder part is actually making the call. 

“Hello?” he says, hating how his voice cracks on the second syllable. There’s a deep sort of rumbling sound, and then,

“Hello. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“M-Marius. Uh, Pontmercy. I’m friends with Enjolras and Cosette.”

He’s not really sure if he’s  _ friends _ with them, not really, but he doesn’t know how else to explain his relation to them.  _ I’m deeply in love with your daughter and not sure how I feel about your son _ doesn’t seem quite proper somehow. Fortunately, Mr. Valjean accepts this. 

“Hello, Marius. I heard you were doing some labors.”

“How did you know?”

“Enjolras told me. He said you haven’t done one for Cosette yet.”

“Ah.”

Should Marius do a labor for Cosette? But that seems strange. He’s doing this to impress her by treating her friends well, and if he did one for her, it might imply that he sees her as a friend and nothing else. How tricky. 

“I’m working on one for Enjolras,” he says instead of acknowledging this. Mr. Valjean makes a pleased noise.

“Are you, then. Very good. Maybe it will help increase his sense of self-worth.”

Why does everyone want to increase his sense of self-worth? It seems like he’s fine as he is. Marius coughs, then has to cough again when the proverbial frog appears in his throat. 

“Yes, well, I was hoping you could help me.”

“Really? Isn’t this supposed to be  _ your _ labor?”

“Yes, of course. I just need some information.”

“What sort of information? I’ve told Enjolras and Cosette countless times, and I’ll tell you now, I don’t condone illegal activities. But if you were to ask out of pure academic curiosity…”

What is it with this family, anyway? “No, that’s not it. I just need to know Mr. Javert’s work schedule.”

“Javert’s work schedule?” Mr. Valjean sounds genuinely surprised. “Well, sure. He’s in the police station every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from nine to five, and he goes out patrolling on Tuesday and Thursday. But why on earth do you need that?”

“It’s part of the labor,” says Marius, unsure of how much he should explain. Maybe Mr. Valjean would be with the police on this. But no, probably not. He doesn’t seem like the type of person to condone misconduct by the authorities. “The police stole his gold necklace,” he says. “They won’t give it back because they don’t like him, so I’m going to go get it for him.”

“Oh, that would be excellent,” says Mr. Valjean. “I did notice he hasn’t been wearing it recently, and I wondered why. But if you could get it back, that would definitely make him very happy. How did the police get it, anyway?”

“They stole it from him when they arrested him,” says Marius. “Or at least that’s what Combeferre said.”

“Did he get arrested again?”

“I don’t think so. I think this was awhile ago.”

“Good. He’s learning.”

“Uh— yeah, don’t worry, he’ll grow out of thinking illegal stuff is cool pretty soon.”

“What? No. I meant, he’s learning not to get caught.”

Marius will never understand some people. He starts tapping his fingers on the table, wondering how to get out of this call. “So, um, thanks. I guess I’ll go to the police station now.”

“All right. Best of luck.”

“Thanks. Uh, bye.”

“Goodbye, Marius.”

Marius hangs up, pondering the strangeness of the phone call. Who would have thought he could talk to Cosette’s dad without spontaneously combusting? Maybe these labors are good for something after all.

The police station is just like he remembers it from when he came with Enjolras all those weeks ago. It’s neat and clean, and just depressing enough to make it obvious that it’s not a place that people go for fun. He walks up to the front desk.

“Hi, can I talk to Mr. Javert, please?”

“Yeah, whatever.” The cop at the desk lazily presses the intercom, and calls out “Javert, visitor,” in an indolent sort of way. Then, he goes back to filing his nails. 

Marius doesn’t know if he should sit down or not, but fortunately, it doesn’t take too long before Javert comes out of the back room. He looks as gruff as always, but when he sees Marius, he gives him a little nod of recognition.

“Hello. You’re the deer boy.”

“I… yeah. Hi.”

“Why are you here.”

“I wanted to…” Marius takes a second to compose his thoughts. This is a little more difficult than he thought it would be. “Okay. See, my friend Enjolras, you know him, cute and blond, full of righteous fury, all that, he had this necklace. And, uh…”

Somehow, it doesn’t seem right to accuse the cops of stealing something right in their own building, even though that’s exactly what they’d done. Marius thinks carefully about what to say next.

“Somehow, his necklace, uh, remained here. So I was hoping to get it back.”

“I don’t know anything about a necklace,” says Javert. “If it belonged to him, and it wasn’t retained for evidence, it should have been sent off with him.”

“Well, somehow, it wasn’t,” fumbles Marius. “I mean, I’m sure it was a mistake, but…”

“Mistake? I don’t think so. Are you sure he didn’t merely misplace it?”

“No, I mean, he didn’t even tell me it was missing. It was his best friend who told me.”

“He didn’t even tell you it was missing? Well, I don’t think I can help you.”

“Wait,” says the front desk cop. Marius looks at him.

“Yeah?”

“I think your friend’s necklace is here. I’m pretty sure Pierre has it.”

“Ah,” says Javert. “It’s true, he does wear that frivolous gold locket thing.”

“Yes, that sounds right,” says Marius eagerly. “Um, can I have it back, please?”

“I’ll ask him,” says the desk cop, and turns on the intercom again. “Pierre! Come out here!”

A minute later, Pierre comes slouching out of the back room. He’s short and bald and looks sort of like a Caucasian Bossuet. 

“What,” he says querulously. 

“Your necklace,” says Javert. “Where did you get it?”

“Oh, this?” Pierre takes it out of his shirt and holds it up. Marius can see that it’s a dainty gold locket with a red gem on it— exactly Enjolras’s style. It’s definitely his. “I lifted it off a perp. Kinda nice, isn’t it?”

“Pierre,” says Javert. “That’s illegal. I’m going to have to ask you to give it back.”

“Why should I? Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“Please,” says Marius, finding his courage. “I really want to give it back to my friend, so…”

“Your friend? You’re friends with that little twerp?” Pierre makes an incredibly rude gesture. “Just for that, I’m not giving it back.”

“But…”

“How about this,” says Javert. “If he can defeat one of us in hand-to-hand combat, then he can have the necklace back. If not, then he has to leave.”

Marius thinks he’s going to faint. How is he supposed to defeat a cop in hand-to-hand combat? There’s no way. Enjolras’s sense of self-esteem isn’t worth all this hassle. He turns to go, but Javert catches his arm.

“We will be arm-wrestling for the prize.”

So, apparently there’s no way out. Marius nods, feeling like all the blood in his body has evaporated into the air. “Okay.”

“Sit down,” says Javert. He nudges the desk cop out of his seat and sits down himself. Marius, seeing no other option, pulls up a chair and sits down across the desk. Javert cracks his knuckles. “Shall we begin.”

Marius wonders if he should crack his knuckles, too. Maybe that would be intimidating. He has been told that his joints are extremely noisy for someone of his age. But no, he can’t. He doesn’t want to look like a copycat, here.

“Go, go, go,” chant the desk cop and Pierre in unison. Javert extends his hand.

“May the game go to the best of us.”

“And may the best of us win,” says Marius, then realizes he’d just paraphrased Javert’s (slightly more eloquent) sentence. “Yeah,” he adds unnecessarily, and extends his hand.

They clasp hands over the table, and Pierre and the desk cop start counting down (from seven, for some reason). “Six! Five! Four!”

Marius starts to sweat. He’s about to humiliate himself in the worst way, and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

“Three! Two! One!”

Oh God.

“Go!”

Marius flexes his puny muscles and puts all his strength into resisting Javert’s grip. He’s expecting it not to work, but somehow, he seems to be holding his own. How on earth? Is it a miracle? He looks at Javert, and then has to look again, just to make sure he’s not seeing things, because that looks like a twinkle in his eye. 

“You’re strong,” says Javert. Marius can’t believe what he’s hearing. He knows he’s not strong, very much the opposite, in fact, and Javert looks like he picks up semi-trucks for fun. What even.

“I’m doing my best,” he squeaks, and pushes, hard. Without warning, Javert’s arm crashes down to the desk.

“Oh no,” Javert says flatly. “I just lost. Marius beat me with his muscles and strength.”

Marius sits, stunned. This can’t be. Javert couldn’t have just  _ let _ him win. “Did you want a rematch?” he asks hesitantly.

“Oh no, I’m too intimidated by your power. It’s scary.”

Well, then. Marius doesn’t think he’ll ever understand, but he’s willing to take it. “Thank you,” he says. “Uh, so, can I have that necklace now?”

“I guess,” says Pierre grumpily. “But you tell that little blond nerd that he can—”

“Okay,” interrupts Javert. “Please hand over the necklace now.”

Pierre takes the necklace off and drops it into Marius’s waiting hand. “Kids these days,” he says, and turns on his heel and leaves. The desk cop flutters his fingers after him.

“Bye, Pierre.”

Marius puts the necklace in his pocket for safekeeping. Then, he looks at Javert, unsure of what to say, but knowing he has to say something. “Th-thank you,” he ends up stuttering out. “I really appreciate it.”

“Justice has been served,” says Javert coolly. “Also, you can tell Enjolras that you beat me in hand-to-hand combat.”

“Can I really?”

“Yes. And tell him that it was very difficult.”

“O-okay.”

“All right. Good day, Marius.”

And with this, Javert turns on his heel and marches crisply back into the back room. Marius stares after him, slightly agape.

“He’s not so bad,” says the desk cop, who’s taken his seat again, and has resumed filing his nails. “But you better get out of here before Pierre decides to come back and beat you in hand-to-hand combat for real.”

Marius doesn’t have anything to say to that. He turns and fairly runs out of the police station to get to his car. He doesn’t want any more hand-to-hand combat today, or possibly ever.

—

“I got something for you,” says Marius, as soon as Enjolras opens the door to his apartment, looking frazzled. His hair is sticking up in various places, and he has huge dark circles under his eyes.

“Is it coffee?” he asks. “Because I would love some coffee. Or a Red Bull.”

“It’s neither of those,” says Marius. “In fact, I think you should cut down on the caffeine. When was the last time you slept?”

“Last night.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Wait, how could you tell?”

“Why don’t you invite him inside,” comes Combeferre’s voice. “Don’t just leave him standing on the doorstep.”

“Oh, right.” Enjolras grabs Marius’s sleeve and tugs on it as if to pull him inside. “Come in. You can have some cookies.”

Marius doesn’t really want cookies, but he figures he probably doesn’t have a choice. He comes inside and takes his shoes off. “What kind of cookies are they?”

“I don’t know. Cosette made them.”

Now Marius is interested. “Cosette made them?”

“Yeah. She dropped them off right before you got here.”

Damn it. Marius knew he shouldn’t have stopped to get gas. If he’d been just a little quicker, he could have seen his love in person. Still, at least he can enjoy her handiwork. 

“Give me a cookie,” he says.

“Here.” Enjolras shoves a saucer-sized cookie into his hand. “Do you want milk, too?”

“Yes, please. Or, wait. Did you drink straight out of the carton?”

Enjolras looks at Combeferre. “No,” he says unconvincingly. 

Marius sighs. “Can I just have some water?”

“Sure.”

Enjolras goes to the refrigerator and takes out a bottle of sparkling water. He puts it into Marius’s hand before Marius can ask if he has anything non-carbonated. Then, he goes and perches on the arm of the sofa, staring at Marius with big, shiny eyes.

“Do you want something,” asks Marius eventually, feeling too awkward to even take a bite of his cookie. Enjolras raises his eyebrows (probably attempting to just lift one). 

“You said you had something for me?”

Oh, right. Marius sets his water down on the coffee table to get at his pocket. Combeferre jumps up with a squeak and grabs a coaster. 

“Condensation can be harmful to wood,” he says reproachfully. Marius dips his head.

“Sorry.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two receipts, a lollipop, a handful of lint, an apple core, and finally, the gold necklace. Enjolras’s eyes get even wider, and he lets out a little gasp.

“Is that—”

Before Marius can prepare himself or get away, his arms are full of little blond revolutionary. Enjolras has launched himself at him and grabbed on, clinging like a particularly passionate koala. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he’s babbling. “I can’t believe you got it back! I thought I would never see it again, but here it is, and it’s all thanks to you!”

This is a little weird. Marius had never thought that Enjolras could act like anything besides a marmoreal nugget of rage. Here he is, though, rubbing his cheek against Marius’s chest like a cat, and cooing his ebullient thanks. Marius, not knowing what to do, pats him on the head. 

“I bested Javert in hand-to-hand combat for you.”

“Really?” Enjolras looks up at him, starry-eyed. “Marius, really? You did that?”

“Yeah. It was really difficult.”

“I can’t believe it.” Enjolras steps away, stands up on his tiptoes, and kisses Marius on the cheek. Marius has the strange feeling that he’s just been kissed by an angel. He coughs awkwardly. 

“Uh, no problem. What’s the deal with the necklace, anyway? Why do you like it so much?”

“Grantaire gave it to me,” says Enjolras. “I think Montparnasse got it. But that was before we started dating him.”

“You don’t care that you’re probably wearing a stolen necklace?”

Enjolras pouts. “Montparnasse doesn’t  _ just _ steal things.”

“Okay, but did he steal this?”

“I don’t know. I never asked.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Why?”

There’s no use in talking to him. Marius takes a step back and picks up his cookie again. “Well, you’re welcome.”

“I’ll remember this,” says Enjolras, somehow making his gratitude sound threatening. He picks up a cookie, takes a bite of it, and sets it back down on the plate. “Eat your cookie.”

Feeling awkward, Marius picks up his cookie and takes a bite--

\--and hollers aloud in acute distress.

“What the fuck, why is it  _ spicy _ ?”

“Oh.” Enjolras smiles at him. “You must have gotten the Cayenne Cookie.”

“What the fuck. Cayenne cookie?”

“It’s a family tradition.”

“Get some new traditions!”

“It means you’re blessed,” adds Combeferre helpfully. “However, I quite understand that spicy food isn’t for everybody. Have another cookie.”

What, is this one going to be full of parsley or something? Fearing for his palate, Marius takes a tiny bite of the cookie Combeferre offers him, then sighs in relief. This one has no strange ingredients in it, and in fact, is rather delicious. 

“Cosette is a good baker,” he says. 

“She is,” agrees Combeferre. “She’s even better than me.”

“And me.” Enjolras takes Marius’s cookie, bites it, and gives it back. “She’s pretty incredible.”

Marius looks down at his cookie in distress. “You couldn’t have just gotten your own? Or like, finished the one you already started?”

“No. I wanted yours.”

He’s definitely a cat. Marius sighs and tries to hand over the cookie. “Here.”

“No, I don’t want it. You eat it.”

“But you took a bite out of it.”

“So? It’s not like I have rabies. Just eat it.”

There’s nothing else to be done. Marius finishes his cookie while Combeferre educates them on rabies, going into too much detail and scaring them both. He seems perfectly happy, though, and finishes up his little lecture with a vivid description of how fatal the disease can be. 

“...and with that, you will breathe your last, wracked with pestilence, and unable to even reach for help,” he says cheerfully. Enjolras visibly shivers.

“Why did you tell us that?”

“I just thought you should know.”

“Well, thank you, I guess.”

At this point, having finished his cookie, Marius decides he may as well leave. Cosette isn’t here, and he doesn’t particularly feel like hanging around and potentially getting another lecture on fatal diseases. He beckons Enjolras over, holding out the necklace, which is somehow still in his hand. 

“Here, let me put this on you.”

Enjolras comes over to him, and turns around, presenting his neck. Marius reaches around him, pushing aside the fleeting thought of catching him in a chokehold, and clasps the necklace on. Then, he pats him on the shoulder. 

“There you go.”

“Thank you.”

Enjolras hugs him one more time, and doesn’t let go until he pats him on the head. He really does seem to like that. Marius isn’t sure what else to do, so he steps away, and goes to put on his shoes. 

“All right, well, I’ll see you later.”

“Okay.”

Again, Combeferre insists on walking Marius down to his car, and again, he’s awkwardly silent until they reach the parking lot. Then, he reaches out and clasps Marius by the hand, his grip so firm that it feels like shaking hands with a wrestler. 

“You’ve done a good thing,” he says. “You should be proud of yourself.”

“I am,” Marius assures him. “It wasn’t exactly easy to get that necklace, you know.”

“I imagine not.” Combeferre smiles at him, and lets go his hand so he can pat him on the shoulder. “I think Enjolras will feel a little better about himself now. You can rest easy knowing that.”

Marius doesn’t think now would be a good time to admit that he doesn’t really care how Enjolras feels. He nods solemnly. 

“I’m glad.”

“Well,” says Combeferre. “I suppose I’ll let you go now. But thank you again for what you did.”

Marius gets in his car and drives off as Combeferre stands and waves at him. He’s pretty proud of himself, all things considered. This was a difficult labor to achieve, but he managed it, and now hopefully Enjolras will tell Cosette that he’s a good person. And, okay, maybe it’s a little good that it made Enjolras happy, too. He really was cute when he was excited. Marius lifts his chin in satisfaction. He did a good job.

\--

Enjolras finds Marius after lecture, and gets in front of him so he can’t pretend not to see him and walk away. He holds out a folded piece of paper.

“Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Something from Cosette. I don’t know, I didn’t read it.”

“From Cosette?”

Marius takes the piece of paper, which, when he looks more closely at it, turns out to be a beautifully calligraphy-ed note thanking him for getting Enjolras’s necklace back. Marius clutches it to his chest, not even caring how silly he looks.

“I can’t believe she wrote this for me!”

“Yeah, she said it was important to make sure you get it.”

Marius is pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven. This is exactly the payoff he’d been hoping for in doing his latest labor. Filled with a sense of goodwill, he reaches out and pats Enjolras on the head.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

Enjolras purrs a little bit. “It’s okay.”

“No, really. Thank you. And tell her thank you, too.”

“Okay.”

Marius is getting ready to turn and leave, when Enjolras catches his sleeve and holds it. He looks a little shy, like he wants to ask something, but isn’t sure how. It’s sort of cute. Marius gives him an encouraging smile.

“What’s up?”

“Um-- do you want to go to the bar tonight? We can have virgin cocktails.”

Marius isn’t sure what comes over him in that moment, but something about Enjolras’s big, shiny eyes and tentative expression tugs at his heart. He reaches up and squeezes his hand.

“I’d like that.”

And, he’s surprised to say, he really would.


	10. Cowfeyrac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cattle of Geryon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for mentions of sex toys and an orgy (not nsfw)

It’s a typical night at Marius’s apartment. Marius is trying to study, while Courfeyrac shimmies around the kitchen, singing along to his latest Broadway obsession and cooking something with far too much sugar. 

“Drink with me, my love, for there’s fire in the sky,” he croons, twirling around to grab the baking powder. “Marius, sing with me!”

“And there’s ice on the ground, either way my soul will die,” chants Marius obediently in a monotone. He hates that he knows a good percentage of Courfeyrac’s musical repertoire now. Courfeyrac whoops in delight and comes over to plant a loud kiss on his head.

“You’re a shining star!”

“Okay,” Marius says blandly, knowing that if he gives into Courfeyrac’s whims, there will be no rest for him. Courfeyrac pouts at him.

“You’re no fun.”

“No.”

Courfeyrac shoves him playfully, and goes back to the kitchen to continue baking. He also pours out yet another glass of wine. Alcohol is essential for baking, he claims, and for getting baked (though there’s none of that going on tonight-- or at least, not yet). He sips away as he cooks, and finally, the delicious smell of brownies fills the air. 

“Do you smell that?” Courfeyrac calls out. “It’s only the scent of the fruits of labor of the most brilliant baker in the world!”

“It smells good,” says Marius absently, underlining a sentence in his textbook. 

Having taken the brownies out of the oven, Courfeyrac comes over to the couch now, grinning. He looks like a Cheshire cat. “Hey, Marius.”

Oh no. “What?”

“Well, you know how we’re best friends, right?”

“I thought Enjolras and Combeferre were your best friends.”

“No, they’re like brothers. Anyway, you know how we’re best friends?”

“Okay. Yes?”

Courfeyrac plops onto the couch. He deftly takes Marius’s textbook and pen away from him and puts them onto the coffee table. Then, he wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Well, I just think it’s funny--” here, he stops, laughing. “My inner sorority girl is coming out.  _ I just think it’s funny _ …”

“What do you think is funny?”

“Oh, right. Well, I just think it’s funny how you’ve done labors for everyone except me.”

“That’s not true,” says Marius quickly. “I haven’t done them for Joly or Combeferre either.”

“Hmm.” Courfeyrac thinks about this. “Well, I mean, that sucks for them, but don’t you think it’s my turn by now?”

“I mean… I guess?”

“Great.” Courfeyrac gives him a smacking smooch on the cheek, and gets up off the couch. “Okay, thank you! You can go back to what you were doing now. Unless you want a brownie.”

Marius doesn’t want a brownie. He remembers vividly what happened last time he ate one of Courfeyrac’s baked goods. Unless…

“Wait, is me eating a brownie your labor?”

“No, that’s weird. Why would it be?”

“Oh. Well then, what  _ is _ your labor?”

Courfeyrac looks up from inspecting his brownies. “What?”

“You didn’t tell me what you want me to do for you.”

“Oh, right. Well, that’s because I don’t know yet.”

Marius sort of wants to whack him on the head. “So you just decided to come along and make me feel guilty for not laboring for you-- for no reason?”

“Yeah. I just thought it would be good to ask you, just in case you decided to refuse or something.”

Marius has to admit, he sort of has a point. “All right,” he says. “I’ll do you a labor next. Just let me know when you think of it.”

“Sweet.” Courfeyrac starts to dance in place. “A labor, a labor, I get a laaaaabor…”

It’s impossible not to laugh at him, even though he’s a little annoying, too. Marius picks up his book again, shaking his head. He really has the weirdest friends. 

\--

It’s two days before Courfeyrac decides on what he wants for his labor. In the meantime, he entertains himself with downloading porn to Marius’s computer. For some reason, most of it seems to involve farming. 

“It’s sexy,” he says, when Marius confronts him about it. “Besides, I checked your computer. The only porn you had was some weird dude jerking off in the dark. You needed it.”

Marius is too embarrassed to admit that he had been the weird dude jerking off in the dark. He just shakes his head and deletes all 150 of Courfeyrac’s videos, vowing to get Montparnasse to generate him a better computer password.

That evening, Courfeyrac settles onto the couch next to Marius. He’s holding a giant bowl of ice cream in one hand, and a glass of wine in the other, and there’s a mischievous smirk on his face.

“I decided,” he says. 

Marius is busy examining his most treasured possession, his thank-you note from Cosette, so this doesn’t register for a minute. “What?”

“I decided on my labor.”

“Oh. Well, what is it?”

“Did you watch those porn videos I downloaded for you?” asks Courfeyrac instead of replying. “I thought they were pretty sexy, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t watch them.”

Courfeyrac sets his glass of wine on the table before dramatically flinging his arm over his face. “And after all my hard work in finding them!”

“You’re weird.”

“Well, be that as it may,” continues Courfeyrac, picking up his wine again. “I downloaded those for you as a hint. You see, I’ve always liked farmers. I think they’re sexy. In fact, I’ve always wanted to fuck a cowboy.”

Marius doesn’t know how to tell him that farmers and cowboys aren’t the same thing. He just nods. “Okay. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because that’s where you come in. I want you to find me a cowboy to fuck. Any gender, I don’t care. But they have to be sexy. Oh, and if you find more than one, that’s cool, too.”

“Seriously? You get that I’m socially awkward, right? This is tantamount to asking Enjolras to find you a fuckbuddy.”

“I would never do that, because they would want to fuck him instead,” says Courfeyrac. “Other than that, I would trust him. He can be very charming.”

Marius doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t want to say anything. Instead, he nods again, trying to look contemplative. “I see. So, a cowboy, huh?”

“Yeah. A sexy one.”

“Okay.”

Wait. Why did he agree to this? Surely it would have been easier to change Courfeyrac’s mind, or maybe wait for him to change it on his own. Marius sighs aloud, not even caring that Courfeyrac is right there and can hear him expressing his distaste for the whole affair. 

“I guess I’ll go get started, then.”

Marius goes off to his room (he needs quiet to be able to concentrate, and Courfeyrac is not conducive to quiet) and opens up his laptop. He pulls up Facebook and begins idly scrolling through his pitiful friends list, looking for someone who might be able to pretend to be a cowboy for the night. And then, it hits him. He and Musichetta  _ met _ some cowboys (or at least farmers, which apparently are the same thing in Courfeyrac’s head). He can ask one or more of them. 

“Hey,” he types out in a group message to the farmers’ page. “My friend wants to have sex with you.”

Was that too forward? No, it’s fine. Besides, it’s true. He waits, on the edge of his seat, until finally someone messages him back.

“Is your friend cute?”

“Objectively, yes. He has nice dimples and curly hair, and a sexy butt. Do you want to see his Instagram?”

Another of the farmers has joined the chat now, and says yes, so Marius sends over Courfeyrac’s (fortunately public) Instagram page. The farmers all look at it for about fifteen minutes, or at least Marius hopes they’re looking at it, because otherwise, his quest is set to be doomed.

Fortunately, they seem to like what they see. Several of them respond that they would be amenable to fucking Courfeyrac, though one or two of them are a little too specific in their enthusiasm, and it makes Marius feel vaguely ill. 

“I don’t know if he likes bondage,” he tells the group. “But you can ask him. He seems to be into a lot of stuff.”

“Good,” texts John McWhorter, one of the most senior members of the group. “I have some toys I’d like to ask him about, too.”

Marius doesn’t want to know about any of that. “Okay,” he types. “How about this. Everyone who wants to fuck him can meet him at the Cafe Musain at 8:00 on Friday.”

“Sounds good,” John types back. “I’ll bring some equipment, just in case.”

“Dress in farmer clothes,” Marius tells them, before logging off and closing his computer. He can’t deal with any more of this today.

\--

Courfeyrac screams in delight when Marius tells him that he’s secured a farmer orgy for him. He grabs Marius and swings him around the room, then sets him down on top of the counter, unfortunately right in the middle of a patch of flour leftover from where he’d been baking cupcakes. 

“You’re the best friend ever!” he hollers, and ruffles his hair (getting quite a bit of flour into it). “I love you, Marius! You’ve made my childhood dreams come true!”

Marius doesn’t quite know what to say to that. “You dreamed about fucking cowboys as a child?”

“Well, no, but I did dream about going on dates with them. It’s basically the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Listen,” says Courfeyrac earnestly, setting his hand on Marius’s shoulder. “This labor isn’t over yet. Please go with me to the orgy.”

“Are you kidding me? No!”

“You don’t have to partake,” says Courfeyrac. “Although, you could if you wanted. I’m sure there’s plenty of cowboy ass to go around. But no, please go with me to be my liaison. I don’t know these people. It would be so awkward for me to just waltz up there and ask these strangers to have sex with me.”

“Why? Don’t you do that already?”

Courfeyrac makes an offended sort of sound. “I do not!”

Marius remembers several instances where he has, or at least it seems like he has, but he doesn’t belabor the point. “Fine,” he says, because Courfeyrac is right, this labor isn’t over until he, as the laboree, says it’s over. “I’ll go with you. But I’m not having sex with anyone.”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “More for me.”

Time goes by unfortunately quickly, and soon Marius finds himself preparing to escort Courfeyrac to his orgy. He’s not sure what to wear; he needs something that screams celibacy, but that doesn’t look nerdy enough to get him made fun of. Finally, he settles on a farmer outfit of his own, hoping it will make him blend in. 

“I’ve never seen you wear flannel,” says Courfeyrac, when he comes out of the bedroom. “It looks good on you. Makes you look gay.”

That hadn’t been quite what Marius was going for. “Do you think people will try to have sex with me?”

“Not if you don’t want them to.”

“Okay. I mean, not that sex is bad or anything, but Cosette…”

“Yes, yes.” Courfeyrac pats him on the head. “Get your shoes on. Let’s go; we’re going to be late.”

They make it to the cafe in plenty of time, thanks to Courfeyrac’s speed-racer driving, and Courfeyrac takes a minute to examine himself in the rear-view mirror, inspecting his chin carefully. When Marius asks what he’s doing, and why he’s not focusing somewhere else, he just shushes him, and continues to preen. 

“All right,” he says, carefully running a hand through his hair. “I look good, right? Marius, do you think I look good?”

It strikes Marius that Courfeyrac might actually be nervous. It seems ridiculous, since he’s so outgoing and flirty, but it could be that he’s as uncomfortable with this new situation as Marius is himself. Somehow, it endears him to Marius’s heart. 

“You look great,” he says, and pats him on the shoulder. “Your new eyebrow routine really paid off.”

Courfeyrac looks touched. “You noticed my new eyebrow routine?”

Really, Marius had just seen it on Instagram when he’d shared his profile with the farmers, but he nods, because Courfeyrac could use the confidence. “Yeah. It looks good.”

“Boy Brow, baby!” Courfeyrac grins, looking more assured now. “All right, let’s do this.”

They head into the cafe together. Marius thinks Courfeyrac is trying to hold his hand, but he neatly avoids this, not wanting anyone to think they’re dating and tell Cosette that he’s off the market. Instead, he takes the lead, and Courfeyrac follows him over to the corner of the cafe, where some of the farmers have already gathered. 

“Hello,” he greets them. “Guys, this is Courfeyrac.”

“He’s really cute,” exclaims one of the farmers, a busty woman named Anna. “Hey, cutie, why don’t you come over here and introduce yourself?”

Courfeyrac swaggers over, all traces of uncertainty gone. In no time, he’s yukking it up with all the farmers, and Marius is relegated to the background. He looks around the cafe, feeling awkward, while more and more farmers arrive and fall under Courfeyrac’s spell. Someone must be texting the group chat, because there’s a lot more people here than Marius had originally gotten to agree to come. By 8:30, there’s no less than fifteen farmers, all clustered around Courfeyrac, trying to charm him. 

“Okay,” says Marius, when Courfeyrac looks over at him and gives him a thumbs-up. “I’m going to go… somewhere. You can have the apartment to yourself tonight.”

“Thanks, man!” Courfeyrac breaks away from the farmers and comes over to give Marius a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

Marius turns around and leaves, unsure of where he’s going. He has a change of clothes and all his toiletries with him, so he could really just check into a hotel if he had to, but somehow, that seems like a bit much. If Eponine didn’t have so many roommates, he would ask her, but she does, and he doesn’t want them to stab him in his sleep or something. He knows very well whom else he could ask to stay with, but he really doesn’t want to. There’s only so much revolutionary fervor he can take.

Still, it’s not like he has a lot of options here, so he pulls out his phone and opens messages to text his (unfortunately) best hope of lodging for the night.

“Hey, Enjolras,” he types. “Can I crash at your place?”

“Sure,” Enjolras texts back fairly quickly. “But Grantaire and Montparnasse are here, too. Is that okay?”

“I guess,” Marius replies, because he can’t really ask for them to leave when they were there first. All he can hope is that they don’t have sex while he’s there. He doesn’t want to escape one sex party only to walk into another one. 

Enjolras sends him several emojis, and a bad close-up of Grantaire giving a thumbs-up, and Marius turns off his phone without replying. Time to head over and crash another date night.

As it turns out, Enjolras, Grantaire, Montparnasse, and poor third-wheel Combeferre seem perfectly happy to welcome Marius into their fold. Enjolras gives him a cookie, and Grantaire pours him a shot of brandy, and Montparnasse plucks at his shirt and declares it to be “surprisingly tasteful.” Combeferre shakes his hand in a warm, firm grip.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says sincerely. 

“Thanks.” Not knowing what to do, Marius drinks his brandy, and doubles over coughing when it burns his throat. “Grantaire, what did you put in here?”

“Cayenne,” says Grantaire cheerfully. Marius turns to Enjolras, outraged.

“Of all the traditions to teach him, you picked that one?”

“But it’s good luck,” says Enjolras earnestly. “We’ve all already had ours.”

“Give him some milk,” says Combeferre. Marius wants to protest this, but he really would like some milk, so he follows Enjolras to the fridge and accepts the glass of milk that he pours him.

“Thanks,” he says. Montparnasse, who’s come over as well, looks at Enjolras askance.

“I thought you were lactose intolerant.”

Enjolras nods. “I am.”

“Then why do you have milk?”

“To drink.”

“But…”

“I’ve stopped questioning it,” says Combeferre. “I just buy him Lactaid and ignore him when he complains about his tummy hurting.”

“My tummy hurts a lot,” explains Enjolras. “It’s not just dairy. I’m allergic to a lot of other things, too.”

Marius slurps at his milk, thankful that he doesn’t have to deal with allergies. The worst he gets is a runny nose in spring, and that’s easy enough to deal with. Enjolras must have it rough.

“Sorry,” he says. “It sucks that you have to deal with allergies.”

“He’s just really delicate,” says Combeferre. “We’ve all started carrying Enjolras-specific first-aid kits around. Actually, you should have one, too. I’ll get Joly to make you one.”

Marius doesn’t know how to protest that he doesn’t really want or need one without looking like a heartless jerk, so he gulps down the rest of his milk, and gestures with the empty glass, hoping it will provide a distraction.

“What did you want me to do with this?”

“I’ll wash it,” says Enjolras, and takes it from him. He goes to the sink, and Marius, feeling as if he ought to help, follows him over.

“I’ll dry it.”

“Oh.” Enjolras turns over his shoulder to give him an appreciative nod. “Thank you, Marius.”

Once the glass is dried and put away in the cabinet, Marius and Enjolras go back to the living room, where Grantaire and Montparnasse are making out on the rug, and Combeferre is sitting on the couch looking extremely uncomfortable. 

“Hey,” he says, nodding at Marius to join him on the couch. Marius sits down, but groans when Enjolras joins Grantaire and Montparnasse and starts to kiss them both with passion.

“You guys know there’s a bedroom literally a few feet away, right?”

“Oh, are we bothering you?” Enjolras looks up with big, innocent eyes. “I’m sorry, Marius. I didn’t realize you wouldn’t like this.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” says Marius. “It’s just, it’s very awkward.”

“Oh.” Enjolras thinks about this, then nudges Grantaire and Montparnasse. “Hey, let’s go to my room. I want to… show you something.”

“I bet I know what it is,” says Grantaire lewdly. Enjolras elbows him, rolling his eyes.

“You think you’re so clever.”

“But is he wrong, though?” asks Montparnasse. Marius has heard enough.

“All right, go, you three. Just go.”

Grantaire gets up and picks up Enjolras in one arm, and gives Montparnasse a hand with the other. Then, Grantaire and Montparnasse fairly run into the bedroom (Enjolras seems happy to be carried). Combeferre watches them go, smiling indulgently.

“I’m so happy they’ve worked everything out. They’re good for each other.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. Enjolras and Montparnasse are similar, but also opposites. Enjolras is a charming boy who’s capable of being terrible, and Montparnasse is a terrible boy who’s capable of being charming. They’re like mirror images of each other. Then, Grantaire is the opposite of them both. They make a good couple. And Enjolras has seemed a lot happier ever since he started dating them.”

Marius hadn’t noticed, probably because a happy Enjolras looks basically the same as a neutral Enjolras, but he has to admit, it is nice for people to find love. That’s what he’s trying to do himself, after all, so it would be hypocritical of him not to appreciate it when he sees it in other people’s lives. 

“I’m happy for them,” he says.

Combeferre nods. “Mhm.”

Marius doesn’t know how to advance the conversation, and he has to admit, he’s still scared of Combeferre, so he sits quietly, looking down at his folded hands, and wishing Enjolras would get done fucking his boyfriends so he could come out and make things less awkward. The fact that he’s wishing for Enjolras to come to his rescue is ridiculous, he thinks, and goes to show just how uncomfortable the situation is now. 

“Hey,” says Combeferre unexpectedly. Marius jumps.

“Oh! Yeah?”

“Courfeyrac told me that you’re doing a labor for him. That’s really nice of you.”

“Well, that’s okay,” Marius says, scratching his ear. “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t done labors for other people. And he’s my best friend.”

“I thought Eponine was your best friend.”

“No, she’s more like a sister.”

“Well, it’s really good of you to help Courfeyrac out like this, especially given the nature of his proposed labor. I know you’re uncomfortable with such prurient matters as this.”

“It’s fine,” says Marius, not wanting to admit that he doesn’t know what  _ prurient _ means. “I mean, Courfeyrac has done a lot for me, so it only makes sense that I should do this for him.”

“You’re a good man,” says Combeferre. “Not a lot of people would do what you’re doing.”

“Really?”

“No. I mean, doing labors for your friends out of the kindness of your heart? That really takes something special.”

Marius doesn’t think that now is the time to admit that he has an ulterior motive in doing these labors. “Thank you,” he says. 

Combeferre nods gravely. “Yes.”

Marius has no idea where to go from here. He decides to sit in silence. Can’t go wrong with that, right? After all, he can’t say anything offensive or awkward this way. Combeferre seems to agree, because they sit together quietly for almost five minutes, just staring straight ahead and pretending they’re not listening to the sounds coming out of the bedroom. Finally, though, someone (probably Enjolras, judging from the high pitch of the voice) makes a horrifying, inhuman noise, and Marius cringes. 

“That was something.”

“Indeed,” agrees Combeferre. “I have to say, I don’t really enjoy hearing all this.”

“Me neither.”

“Would you like to go somewhere else?”

Marius is surprised to find that he really would. After all, he’s already hanging out with Combeferre. It can’t hurt to hang out with him elsewhere.

“Let’s go,” he says. 

So together, they go down to Marius’s car, and get in. Then, they sit in silence for another minute, each waiting for the other to suggest a destination. Finally, Marius decides to break the ice. 

“Do you want to go to a bar?”

“I must admit, bars aren’t really my thing,” says Combeferre. “What about a coffee shop?”

Marius can do a coffee shop. In fact, he’d be very happy to do a coffee shop. “That sounds good.”

“Great. I know a good one near here.”

So they drive off together, and at first it’s completely silent, but then Combeferre plugs his phone into the aux cord and holds it up.

“May I?”

“Go ahead,” says Marius.

He nods and opens up Spotify. Before Marius can think of any expectations of what he might choose, the car is filled with the harsh, guttural sounds of heavy metal. Marius is a little discomfited.

“Combeferre,” he says. “What is this?”

“Cannibal Corpse,” says Combeferre cheerfully. “Do you like it?”

“It’s very… nuanced.”

“Ah, yes, I think so, too.” Combeferre is quiet for a few measures, just nodding in time to the rhythm, then speaks up again. “It’s nice to be able to listen to this in the car. Usually, I have to drive Enjolras around, and metal messes with his anxiety.”

It scares Marius, too, but he’s even more scared to say so. He nods stiffly. “That’s too bad.”

“It is, isn’t it? He should get some better taste in music.”

“What does he listen to?”

“Anything that protests the establishment. And bubblegum pop.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he picked up the habit from Courfeyrac. That, and musicals. Being friends with those two means inviting constant earworms.”

“I know what you mean,” says Marius. “I think I know every word to Hamilton now. And I could probably perform Wicked by myself if I had to.”

Combeferre hums in agreement. “Yesterday, I found myself singing a song from The Musical in the shower. And I don’t even speak Korean.”

“What do you speak?” asks Marius curiously. “I mean, you seem like the type of person who would be a polyglot.”

“Oh, not really,” says Combeferre. “I just speak French, English, Kinyarwanda, and just enough Spanish to get by. What about you? Didn’t you study linguistics in college?”

Marius sighs. “Linguistics doesn’t mean just learning a bunch of languages, you know.”

“I know. I was a linguistics major, too. But for us, we had to study a few languages besides our native one.”

“I speak French, English, and German,” says Marius (though with the uncomfortable feeling that he’s exaggerating how well he can “speak”), but then he stops. “Wait. You were a linguistics major, too?”

“I was. Turn here.”

Marius turns into the parking lot of a cute-looking little cafe, and parks. He doesn’t get out yet, though. “That’s awesome. I knew you liked language, but I didn’t know you actually studied it.”

“I did. I loved it. I would have become a professor, but… well. I became a medical doctor instead.”

“That’s noble.”

Combeferre laughs. It’s a nice laugh. “I don’t think it’s especially noble. I saw a need, and I filled it. That’s all.”

That’s like the textbook definition of noble. Marius realizes now why Enjolras and the others extol Combeferre all the time. He’s like some kind of saint or something. It’s weird, but sort of nice, in a way. Maybe his goodness will rub off. 

“Well, let’s go in,” says Marius. “Time to get some coffee.”

“Of course.”

They go in together, and Combeferre insists on paying for their coffees, further proving his status as a saint, and they sit down together at a table in the corner. 

“So,” says Combeferre, after sniffing his coffee, setting it down, picking it up again, swirling it, and sipping. “What was your specialty in undergrad? Did you have one?”

“Second language acquisition,” says Marius. “I really like it.”

“It is fascinating,” agrees Combeferre. “I was more of a computational linguistics person, but second language acquisition does have a certain appeal.”

“I know, right? I really love it.”

From then on, their conversation becomes more and more abstract, as they indulge themselves in talking about linguistics, and the night fairly flies by. Marius is surprised to look at his phone and see that it’s already midnight.

“We should get back,” he says. “It’s late. Besides, I’m hungry.”

“Did you not eat?” Combeferre looks scandalized. “It’s important to eat three meals a day, you know!”

“I know. But…”

“Come on. Let’s go to this 24-hour place that Grantaire recommended to me. They have amazing omelettes.”

Marius doesn’t think he really has a choice, so he follows Combeferre out to the car. He’s not too upset about it; he’s having a nice time, and besides, omelettes sound really good right now. He gets into the driver’s seat, ready to go. This evening has been weird, but he wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.

—

The next day, Marius comes back to his apartment after class. Courfeyrac is there, humming to himself and washing a sink-full of sex toys. 

“Oh, hello,” he says cheerfully, upon seeing Marius enter. “I had an amazing time last night, thanks to you. Thank you so much!”

“It’s nothing,” says Marius. “I’m glad you had fun.”

“What did you do?”

“I hung out with Combeferre, actually. We went to a cafe, and then got food at a diner. And then we went back to his place and Grantaire made 3AM noodles and woke us up to make us eat them.”

Courfeyrac considers this. “Why was Grantaire there?”

“Enjolras invited him and Montparnasse over.”

“Oh. Well, were the noodles good?”

“Yeah, they were, actually. Except he put mayo in them.”

“Hmm.” Courfeyrac licks his lips obnoxiously. “I’d eat the heck out of that.”

Marius has the feeling that they’re going to be eating mayo noodles for dinner tonight. Still, it’s not like he minds too much. Mayo can be delicious when used in the right hands. Filled with a sudden rush of affection, he goes to Courfeyrac and drapes an arm around his shoulders.

“I’m glad I could do a labor for you.”

Courfeyrac turns his head and kisses him on the cheek. It makes a really loud noise. Marius wonders how he does that. “Me too! You’re such a good friend, my little buddy.”

“I’m taller than you.”

“But you’re little in spirit.”

Marius isn’t sure if this is a compliment or not. He’ll take it, though. “Thank you.”

“Let’s go to brunch,” continues Courfeyrac. “I want a mimosa and some eggs benedict, and I’m not getting that around here, because..” here, he stops to burst into song, “I forgot to go grocery shopping this week!”

“I thought you went to the store, though.”

“Yeah, but all I bought was wine.”

He’s awful. Marius decides that he tolerates him, though. “Let’s go to brunch,” he says. “I’ll even pay.”

“I love you, Marius!” shouts Courfeyrac, and then, much to Marius’s dismay, hands him a large rainbow-colored dildo. “Here, you can have this as an expression of my love.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Too bad. If you don’t take it, I’m going to sneak into your room some night and put it under your pillow, and then you’ll dream about it.”

“That doesn’t sound ethically or scientifically right.”

“Oh, it is. Just ask Enjolras.”

“What did you do to him?”

Courfeyrac twirls in place. “I gave him some good dreams.”

There’s nothing Marius can think of to say to that. He takes the dildo. “Thank you.”

“Think of me when you use it.”

“I’d… rather not.”

“Well, anyway.” Courfeyrac dries his hands, leaving his sex toys in the sink, and goes to put his shoes on. “Are you coming?”

That’s probably an innuendo, but Marius chooses to ignore it. He puts the dildo on the counter, then goes to join Courfeyrac at the door. 

“Let’s go.”

This whole adventure hasn’t been too bad, Marius reflects, as Courfeyrac speeds through the streets on their way to the Musain. It’s been sort of nice, even. Now, if only Courfeyrac were a better driver, things would be—

“Oh hell!”

Marius lurches forward, as Courfeyrac screeches to an abrupt stop in the middle of the street. “What the fuck?”

“It’s Javert.”

“What?”

“Hello, kids,” comes a familiar voice. “May I just ask, young man, who taught you to drive?”

Courfeyrac leans out the open window, smiling charmingly. “Marius did.”

Never mind. This whole adventure is terrible, and Courfeyrac is the worst. Marius leans back against the seat and groans. He’s never doing a labor for him again.


	11. Joly Delicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Apples of the Hesperides

“Now, the thing about health food,” says Joly, putting a plate of spinach on the table, and pouring a heinous amount of sriracha over it, “is that it can be very delicious. But it can also be truly bad.”

“What’s this going to be?” asks Grantaire. “Is it the bad one?”

Joly slaps him with a potholder. “How dare you. I’ll have you know I’m an excellent cook.”

“You are,” agrees Bossuet. “Except for when you’re not.”

“Babe!” Joly slaps him, too. “How could you? I work my ass off, cooking up a storm in this kitchen, and you have the audacity to doubt my prowess? How  _ could _ you?”

Bossuet shrugs. “Hey, I’m just saying. Remember those black bean cookies?”

“I do,” says Grantaire solemnly. “I think Enjolras still has one in his refrigerator.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t have the heart to throw it away.”

“That does sound like him,” says Joly. “I’d be touched, except I’m kinda grossed out.”

“Hey Marius,” says Bossuet. “Have you ever tried Joly’s cooking before?”

Marius looks up from where he’s watching Musichetta edit Courfeyrac’s face onto every single person in a photo of the Star Wars cast. He shakes his head.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Ooh, you’re in for a treat,” coos Joly. “I made lasagna today!”

Lasagna doesn’t sound so bad, so Marius has no idea why everyone in the room groans at once. Grantaire makes a horrible face, looking like an uglier, hairier version of a gargoyle. 

“Seriously, man? Why would you make that again?”

“It’s my abuela’s recipe,” says Joly defensively. “I want to get it right.”

“Not even your abuela can get it right.”

“Hey!”

“Well, she  _ can’t _ .”

“What’s wrong with it?” asks Marius. Everyone groans again. 

“You don’t want to know,” says Bossuet.

“I mean, I kind of do.”

“Well… it’s got bananas in it, for one thing.”

Marius nods. “I see.”

“And she uses vegan mayonnaise instead of Béchamel sauce,” says Musichetta, joining the discussion. Marius nods again. There’s nothing else to do. 

“You’re all being negative,” says Joly. “Just try it, Marius. Don’t let them prejudice you. You’ll like it.”

“I’m not sure I will, actually.”

“Come on, man.”

“Okay, fine.” 

Marius accepts the heaping plate that Joly gives him, and takes a fork out of the drainboard. The others gather around him, silently craning their necks and jostling each other to be the closest, which is somewhat awkward. Marius doesn’t really want this many people to get an up-close view of him chewing. 

Still, there’s nothing he can do about it, so he takes a fork full of the lasagna, and lifts it to his lips-- and suddenly, it’s like a star has burst in the high heavens, sending blessed rays of light into this humble kitchen. There might be an angelic chorus singing in ten-part harmony. Marius, overwhelmed with culinary wonder, feels tears begin to prick against the back of his eyeballs. This has to be the most delicious lasagna he’s ever tasted, rich and creamy and perfectly cooked. 

“It’s amazing,” he says with his mouth full, already going to take another bite. “Guys, you have to try this.”

“I don’t want to,” says Grantaire. 

Marius shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand. This is  _ amazing _ .”

“I know,” says Joly, preening.

Marius continues to eat lasagna like it’s his job. After all, if the others aren’t going to eat it, someone has to pick up the slack. Everyone watches him, occasionally grimacing or making weird comments. At one point, Grantaire suggests that it probably tastes like alien food, and Joly dumps a glass of water over his head. 

“Don’t be so rude, you rude mollusk.”

When Marius has finished his third helping of lasagna, and all the others, finally tired of watching him, have migrated into the living room to play strip poker, Joly sidles up to him, making crab fingers.

“Can I  _ pinch _ a bit of that?”

Marius gestures welcomingly to the pan, and Joly starts to help himself. As he eats, he rambles on about his latest Capitalized Game Theory, involving Jack Skellington, genealogy, and something called Sans Undertale. Marius has no idea what half the words mean, but Joly seems happy enough just to talk.

“Hey,” he says suddenly. “So, you like health food.”

Marius isn’t sure where this came from, since he had just been talking about the physical impossibility of “skeleton titties,” but he nods.

“Sure. It’s good.”

“I have a dream,” Joly tells him. “Did you know that there’s something called a Green Delicious Apple?”

“Green Delicious? Are you sure?”

“Yes. My dream is to try one.”

That seems like it might be hard to do. Marius nods at him. “Well, good luck.”

“My dream,” says Joly, more loudly, over-enunciating each syllable, “is to try one.”

Oh.

“My labors have to be doable,” says Marius. “I can’t get you an apple that doesn’t exist.”

“Well, you don’t have to. Just get me a Green Delicious.”

“But where would I even find one?”

“That’s your job, now isn’t it?” Joly pats him on the head. “Thanks, pal!”

Marius wants to offer some sort of rebuttal, but there’s nothing he can say. He lowers his head. 

“I will find you a Green Delicious apple.”

“Of course you will,” says Joly cheerfully. “Now, where was I?”

“I don’t know?”

“Oh, right. Skeleton titties. So the problem is that skeletons don’t nurse their young…”

—

Marius decides to ask Grantaire where he can find a Green Delicious apple. After all, Grantaire knows where everything else is; hopefully he’ll be able to locate this mythical fruit, too. However, much like a member of the fae, an old god, or a corrupt politician, Grantaire refuses to give favors for free. Marius stops in at the local bottle shop, hoping to find something that will appeal to him.

“Hello,” says the cashier, once he gets to the register. “Can I see your ID, please?”

Marius sighs and holds it out. He wonders how much longer it will be before he stops getting carded wherever he goes. The cashier nods, and rings him up.

“You having a party?”

“No, it’s for my friend. His name is Grantaire, but he goes by R. Do you know him?”

“Oh, him.” The cashier wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, there was a period of a few months where he would come in and buy exactly one bottle of beer. He took them out of the six-packs. It was really annoying.”

That sounds exactly like something he would do. Marius nods. “I’m sorry. At least he’s stopped, though.”

“Yeah, but now he’s started trying to buy things that aren’t for sale instead.”

“What? Like what?”

“Like the fire extinguisher. Hey, do you have any influence on him? Can you make him go somewhere else?”

“I don’t think anyone has even the slightest influence on him except his boyfriend. Not even both of them. Just one.”

The cashier sighs. “Well, that’s to be expected, I suppose. I guess I’ll see him at precisely 4:20 AM next Sunday. Have a good day.”

“You too,” says Marius, and for some reason, does a little bow. Then, he backs out of the store (probably making things worse) and onto the sidewalk, where he crashes headlong into Mr. Valjean. 

“Hello,” says Mr. Valjean. “I see you’re heading to a party.”

That’s probably the least embarrassing explanation, so Marius decides to go with it. “Yes, I wanted to come prepared.”

“I see.” Mr. Valjean nods at him solemnly. “All right. Well, have a good time. And be safe.”

“I will. Okay, uh— thank you. Goodnight. I mean, good day. Uh, bye.”

“Goodbye.”

Marius hurries off to his car, straps his newly-acquired booze into the front seat, and sets off for Grantaire’s house. Now he has to find a party to go to, so as not to be a liar. What a pain. Hopefully Grantaire will be able to find one.

Grantaire opens the door to his apartment, wearing nothing but a jockstrap and a pair of bedazzled, tasseled nipple pasties. He’s remarkably hairy. Marius wonders if he has to shampoo his chest.

“Hello,” he says. “I brought you something.”

“You did?” Grantaire slaps a hand dramatically over his heart, and the tassels on his nipple pasties jingle. “Why, Marius! Are you come a-wooing? But I thought you were preoccupied with dreamy fancies of your lady love!”

“I’m not wooing you,” says Marius, unsure if Grantaire is joking, but wanting to make this clear just in case. “Can I come in?”

“Enter, my dear little friend.”

Marius comes inside. No one else is there, which means that this is a casual boudoir outfit for Grantaire. He sets the bag of bottles on the only empty space he can find, atop the piano (which must be a new acquisition; Marius doesn’t remember seeing it last time), and points at it.

“I brought alcohol.”

“Pour moi?” Grantaire bounces over to the piano, looks into the bag, and whistles in delight. “Nice, you got a selection.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know what you like. So I got one of everything.”

Grantaire is already drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey, but he holds out another bottle to Marius. “Here,” he says, once he’s swallowed a decent mouthful. “Have some.”

“I drove here,” protests Marius, but Grantaire keeps holding out the bottle, shaking it slightly to make it more enticing.

“If we have to, we can get Montparnasse to drive you back. He and Enjolras are coming over to stay the night.”

“Oh. But I have to go to a party.”

“Really? What party?”

“I don’t know. Any party. I told Cosette’s dad I was going to one, and now I have to, so Cosette doesn’t think I’m a liar.”

Grantaire laughs heartily and slaps him on the back. “You’re a right little rube, now, aren’t you?”

“A what?”

“I don’t know. I heard it on TV.”

“Anyway,” says Marius, after taking a careful sip of vodka, because he might as well pregame, “I need to find a party. And also a Green Delicious apple.”

“Why the apple? Are you making a pipe? Because I have a bong, if you—”

“No, thank you,” says Marius precipitately. “It’s for Joly, you see. He said he wanted a Green Delicious apple. So now I have to get him one.”

“What a little weirdo.” Grantaire considers this. “Wait, what is a Green Delicious apple?”

“You know what,” says Marius. “I legitimately do not know.”

“I’ll look it up.” Grantaire winks at him. “I’m a pretty good hand with Madame Google.”

Marius examines the back of his hand while Grantaire types away on his laptop, which he’d insisted upon hauling out for the occasion, explaining that it was more appropriate. Finally, though, Grantaire hollers in success.

“I got it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Green Delicious apples are real. But they’re found only in this one part of the country, and it’s hard to get them, and in fact, for us to win them on the black market, we would have to enter what looks like… a brawl?”

Now Marius is glad Grantaire offered to share his alcohol. He thinks he needs several more drinks in order to fortify himself for this. How is he supposed to fight in a brawl? Last week, he stood in line behind a mannequin for almost fifteen minutes. He would be destroyed in almost any kind of brawl he can imagine. 

He has to do it, though, or Joly will never get his apple. He squares his jaw. 

“I’ll do my best.”

Grantaire looks amused. He strikes a pose, probably thinking he’s being subtle. “Okay, I’ll help you. But you have to credit me.”

“What? No one else wanted credit!”

“Well, they’re either remarkably humble, or remarkably foolish. Either way, I want credit or I won’t help you.”

Marius sighs. He doesn’t think it completely interferes with the labors to have someone help; he’s done it enough times before. But this seems to stick in the craw a bit. He doesn’t want to have to share the glory of a labor well-completed, and especially not with Grantaire, who is now taking a rather intimate picture with his bottle of whiskey, presumably for a size comparison.

“Don’t be shy now,” Grantaire crows, setting his bottle on the piano and pulling his underwear back up. “Enjolras and Montparnasse are already going to see it, so you might as well, too.”

“That’s okay.”

“And— sent. There we go, they’ll get that soon. Now, what was I going to help you with?” 

Marius is opening his mouth to reply, but Grantaire sweeps on over him, like that vacuum cleaner that got broken cleaning up this cursed apartment. 

“Right, the apple. I know who might hold the answer to your search, and who might, for a fee, be persuaded to part with it.”

This would be encouraging, but Marius has really only heard one part. “For a fee?”

“Yes, do you know what that means? It’s—”

“I know what a fee is,” says Marius. “Why do I have to pay it?”

“Capitalism.” Grantaire tips his bottle and drains down another gulp of whiskey. “So, are you going to pay it?”

That’s a question, all right. Heretofore, none of the labors have involved a monetary transaction, which seems like a pretty reasonable standard to uphold. Adding money would be weird. It would make it seem like he was trying to buy his friends’ friendship. Then again, though…

“Joly doesn’t have to know that I paid for the labor, right?”

“He does,” says Grantaire cheerfully. “How else could we give credit where credit is due?”

“What, are you going to write him a receipt or something?”

“That’s a good idea. Yeah, I think we should.”

This is all so much. Marius has no idea what to do. He doesn’t think he can win the brawl, but he can’t exactly ask someone to take his place, because then the apple would go to them, not him. No, he needs to do this himself, but he has no idea how he’s going to do it. 

“You know what,” he says. “I think I should go to a party. I’ll think about this later.”

“Are you  _ avoiding _ ?” Grantaire wiggles his eyebrows in delight. “Marius, how could you? Anyway, I’ll go to the party with you.”

Marius doesn’t really want Grantaire to go to the party with him. “Aren’t you waiting for Enjolras and Montparnasse?”

“They’ll be here soon. We can all go.”

“But where?”

Grantaire clicks on his phone. “We shall see.”

After a few minutes, Grantaire looks up from his phone, and slowly raises his hand into a thumbs-up. Marius takes this to mean that he’s found one.

“What is it?”

“A house party at my friend Floréal’s place. She said we’re all welcome. So uh,  _ you’re _ welcome.”

“Thanks,” says Marius begrudgingly, because Grantaire really has been helpful, but he’s so annoying about it. “Should we get ready?”

“I thought I would wear this,” says Grantaire. “It brings out my eyes.”

Is he serious? He might actually be serious. Marius doesn’t know what to do, but at this moment, there’s a knock on the door, and Grantaire races over to get it.

“Enter, my darlings,” he calls out, sweeping the door open in a grandiose gesture. Then, as if not trusting them to heed his words, he bodily reaches out and pulls them both into the apartment. “Hello,” he says.

“Hey,” says Montparnasse. “Sorry we’re late. Enjolras tried to help some guy fix his car.”

“But you don’t even know how to drive,” says Marius, surprised into speech. Enjolras looks at him and crosses his arms.

“That’s not going to stop me from trying.”

“Well, did it work?”

“Yeah. I eventually called AAA.”

Grantaire picks him up and smooches him soundly. “You’re an adorable angel, my love.”

“Anyway,” says Marius, not wanting this to go any further, “shall we get ready for the party?”

“What party?” asks Montparnasse. “I’m not sure I look good enough today to go to every party.”

“No, it’s okay, it’s just at Floréal’s.”

“Also, you do look good enough to go to every party,” says Enjolras. “But I understand your concern. I feel like a mashed potato.”

“Mashed potatoes are delicious,” says Grantaire lasciviously. “Baby, why don’t you come with me while I get dressed?”

“Oh? Okay.”

They go off together, and Marius is expecting Montparnasse to follow them, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits down on the couch and gestures for Marius to join him.

“Let’s relax. It could be awhile.”

Marius doesn’t know what to talk about, but fortunately Montparnasse turns on the TV, and they sit and watch the weather for a few minutes, until Montparnasse turns to Marius and pats him on the knee.

“I never thanked you for getting Enjolras’s necklace back for him. Thank you.”

“It’s fine,” says Marius. “He was really happy about it.”

“He was. And I was, too. I’ve had that necklace for years. It was the first thing I ever bought legally.”

“What, seriously? And you gave it to him?”

“Why not?”

“I mean…” Marius has the feeling that if he’s not careful, he could get himself punched in the face. “It seems like you might want to keep something so precious for yourself.”

“Enjolras is precious. And I get to keep him for myself.”

Why does everyone around Marius have to be so disgusting? It’s distasteful. Marius doesn’t really know what to say, so he changes the subject. 

“What area of linguistics do you like?”

“Dialectology,” says Montparnasse immediately. “I make it a point of pride to understand every dialect I can.”

“But you seem to speak a pretty standard dialect yourself.”

“Yes, well. One must be proper, after all.”

This doesn’t seem like a terribly descriptivist point of view for a linguist to have, but Marius doesn’t really know how to say that without sounding rude. So he tries again.

“I like second language acquisition.”

Montparnasse perks up. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

And with that, the conversation is made. Marius and Montparnasse sail off into linguistics territory, and it’s so absorbing that Marius barely even notices when Grantaire and Enjolras come back out of the bedroom.

“Well, my friends, are you entertaining yourselves in our absence?” says Grantaire, not even waiting for a pause in the conversation before injecting himself in. “I think we should get going, though. Floréal awaits.”

Marius gets up off the couch somewhat slowly. Now that it’s time for him to go to this party, he doesn’t want to, especially with these three. He’s going to be fourth-wheeling them all night, and it’s going to be awkward as hell. 

Still, he has to do it, so he may as well go into it with a positive attitude. That’s the best thing he could do, right? He goes to the door.

“Come on, guys. Let’s get out of here.”

“Should we bring anything?” asks Enjolras. “What about these alcohols?”

Something about his phrasing sounds slightly off, but Marius thinks this is to be expected. He looks at Grantaire.

“Are you okay with us bringing some? Or did you want to keep all of it?”

“Bring it,” says Grantaire. “It’s not like I bought it, after all. Easy come, easy go.”

So he picks up two bottles, one in each hand, and they all go down to the car. Montparnasse insists on driving, and Enjolras says he needs to sit up front because he gets motion-sick easily, so Marius ends up crammed in the backseat with Grantaire. It’s surprisingly not too bad, except Grantaire gets closer and closer and flirtier and flirtier, and by the time they pull up to Floréal’s house, he’s practically got his hand down Marius’s pants.

“What a pity we’re here already,” he says, unstrapping himself. “I thought we were getting nice and cozy there.”

Marius hastens to get out of the car. He doesn’t want to get any cozier if at all possible.

The party turns out to be very large and loud. It’s also completely full of strangers. Marius decides to go to the kitchen and hang out in there, because that way he won’t have to hang out with Grantaire, Enjolras, and Montparnasse, but he hopefully won’t have to talk to too many other people, either. It works for awhile, but then Floréal comes in and takes him under her wing.

“It’s okay,” she says, after unsuccessfully trying to introduce him to three separate groups of people. “I know it can be hard. Why don’t you find Enjolras? He’s got social anxiety, too.”

Marius isn’t sure how to explain that he doesn’t have social anxiety; he’s just awkward. He ducks his head and nods and goes off to see if there’s a cat in the house that he could play with. 

There’s no cat, but he does find Enjolras hiding in the spare bedroom, and that’s sort of the same thing. He goes and sits down beside him on the bed.

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay.” Enjolras smiles up at him. “I just got a little overstimulated, so I came in here. But I’m having fun. Someone gave me an apple.”

Now he has Marius’s attention. “An apple?”

“Yes, they said it was “for the fairest,” or something like that. It’s called a Green Delicious.”

“Enjolras,” says Marius. “You didn’t eat it, did you?”

“No. It’s here.”

Enjolras holds up a shiny green apple. It looks picture-perfect, like it could be featured on TV or something. Marius doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a beautiful apple in his life. And now he needs to get it. Carefully, he puts a hand on Enjolras’s bony little shoulder.

“You know we’re friends, right?”

“Yes!”

Enjolras looks so genuinely delighted that Marius almost feels bad for what he’s about to do. It might be manipulative. But he puts the thought out of his head; he needs that apple, and this is the best way to get it. 

“Well,” he says. “I think it’s really nice when friends do things for each other. It really proves the friendship, you know?”

“Yes?”

“I think you’re a pretty cool little guy, you know. I just wish I knew what you thought about me.”

“Oh no.” Enjolras scoots closer and grabs Marius’s sleeve. He tugs on it insistently. “Marius, I’m so sorry, I haven’t been as good at showing my affection for you as I should have. The truth is, I think you’re a wonderful person, and I always have. I mean, you’re kind of goofy, but you’re a fundamentally good person, and I really like you.”

He goes on, getting more and more passionate as he continues to talk. It’s not that Marius doesn’t like hearing about how great he is— that’s always flattering for the ego— but he has an objective in mind, and he sort of wishes Enjolras would stop talking so he could get his apple. 

“Thanks,” he says eventually, as soon as Enjolras stops for breath. “You’re cool, too. Anyway, I think we should reaffirm our friendship.”

“Really?” Enjolras’s eyes are like stars. “Marius, do you mean that?”

“Of course. Here, as a token of my affection, let me give you, uh… a hug.”

He puts an arm around Enjolras and hugs him briefly, counting to five in his head before letting go. That ought to be a good amount of time, he thinks. Not too short, but not too unbearably long, either. 

Enjolras seems loath to leave the embrace. He stays cuddled up at Marius’s side even after Marius takes his arm away. It’s sort of cute, or at least it would be if he would let go of his apple. He seems to have a pretty firm grip on it, though. Marius decides to try another tack.

“What is your love language? For me, I always love getting gifts.”

“Oh.” Enjolras looks down at the apple in his hand. Marius can practically see the cogs turning in his brain. “Um— do you want this? I know it’s not much, but I want to express my love, and this is all I have. I understand if it’s not enough, but—”

“It’s okay,” says Marius. “This is perfect.” He takes the apple, and stands up, dislodging Enjolras. “Okay, well, great. I’m glad we’re friends. I think I’m going to head home now.”

“But didn’t we give you a ride?”

Dammit. “Well, don’t you want to go home? You said you got anxious.”

“I’m okay now.”

Double dammit. Marius tries to put on an appealing smile. “If we went home, you could plan the revolution, or whatever it is you like to do.”

“But I’m having fun here.”

“But you could have fun at home, too.”

Enjolras blinks at him. “Do you want to go home?”

“Yeah, I mean…”

“Okay, we can go home.”

That was so easy. Marius makes a discreet victory fist. “Great. Can you convince your boyfriends to take us back? I don’t think they’ll listen to me.”

“Okay.” Enjolras gets off the bed and goes over to the door. He holds one little hand out to Marius. “Come on, let’s go find them.”

Marius doesn’t really want to hold hands with him, but he guesses it’s only practical, since they might lose each other in the hordes of partygoers otherwise. He takes his hand and allows himself to be led out into the house.

“There’s Montparnasse,” says Enjolras after a few minutes of looking. “He’s doing shots with, um… I think that’s Glorieux.”

The name doesn’t sound familiar, but Marius doesn’t think he wants it to, considering how scary the guy looks. He tries to let go of Enjolras’s hand.

“Okay, well, you know them both, so I’ll hang out here, and…”

“Let’s get them,” says Enjolras, not paying any attention. He tows Marius through the crowd and right up to the makeshift bar where Montparnasse and presumably-Glorieux are now tackling their chasers. “Hey,” he says.

“Enjolras!” Montparnasse sets down his cup and reaches out his arms. “Come here, angel. Do a shot with us.”

“Okay. But I was actually wondering if we could go after that.”

“Are you okay? Are you feeling anxious?” Montparnasse swipes a curl out of Enjolras’s face and tucks it behind his ear, and it’s such a tender, loving gesture that Marius feels sick. “We can definitely leave. Do you need me to go outside with you, and we can wait out there?”

“I’m okay,” says Enjolras, smiling up at him with a sweet little light in his eyes. “Marius wanted to go home, you see.”

“Oh.” Montparnasse looks at Marius as if seeing him for the first time. It’s a very judgmental look. “Dude, it’s only about 9PM. Do you seriously want to leave already?”

“Well, yeah,” flounders Marius. “I mean, there’s a lot of stuff we could do tonight, and we’ve already been here for awhile, so…”

“Ugh, fine.” Montparnasse pulls Enjolras close and gestures somewhat dismissively at Marius. “Go find Grantaire. We’ll be here.”

“You don’t want to come with me?”

“Did I say I did?”

“No.”

“Then, no.”

There’s really no point in hanging around after that, so Marius turns and tries to push through the wall of drunken idiots that seems to have built up around him. It’s difficult, but he makes it through by getting knocked to his knees, then continuing his journey on the ground. It’s a lot easier this way, especially because people see him crawling around and hop out of the way, probably thinking he’s going to throw up on their feet. Soon enough, he’s made it out of the living room, and he can stand up.

“Grantaire,” he calls. No one seems to pay him any attention. “Grantaire!”

“I think he went outside,” says someone at his elbow. “He said something about having a smoke.”

Marius pats his benefactor on the shoulder, and heads for the patio, where, sure enough, Grantaire is leaning against a pillar and smoking a cigarette. Despite his casual posture, though, he looks anything but relaxed.

“I’m gonna give you five seconds to take that back,” he’s saying.

This doesn’t sound good. This sounds like a fight might be brewing. Marius knows he has to get in the middle of it now, before things heat up too much. He steps up to Grantaire’s side.

“Hey, so Enjolras wanted to leave.”

“Oh, he wanted to leave,” comes a mocking voice, and Marius turns to see a man with an Anonymous mask on his head standing contrapposto and watching them. He couldn’t be more clearly contemptuous, and Grantaire stiffens.

“What are you saying?”

“Oh, just that your little boyfriend is a bit of a baby, isn’t he?”

This isn’t good. This  _ really _ isn’t good. Marius bounces up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Right,” he says, a little too loudly. “What, uh, Mr. Mask here means is that he’s  _ your  _ baby, right?”

“It’s Claquesous,” says Mr. Mask. “And no, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying he’s a—”

“Real stand-up guy,” cuts in Marius, and chuckles nervously. Claquesous doesn’t look amused.

“No.”

“What, then?” asks Grantaire, casually cracking his knuckles. Claquesous cracks his knuckles, too.

“He’s a twerp.”

“Take that back.”

“No. You take it back.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“How about this,” says Marius. “Why don’t we all just be cool? And then Grantaire and I can leave.”

Grantaire and Claquesous turn on him with similar poisonous glares. 

“Get out of here,” snaps Grantaire.

Marius doesn’t have to be told twice. He turns around and goes inside as quickly as possible. Sure, he still wants to go home, but he doesn’t want to have to brave a fight for that. 

He finds Enjolras and Montparnasse inside, curled up on the couch together, with several frightening-looking people crowded around them. Enjolras is talking, of course, and his posture is bright and open.

“And then he said we should reaffirm our friendship,” he’s saying as Marius gets close. “I gave him that apple, and he hugged me.”

“Hmm.” Montparnasse looks up and sees Marius, and his eyes narrow. “Oh look, here he is.”

“Hey,” says Marius, feeling awkward. He has the uncomfortable feeling that Montparnasse knows exactly how he got the apple. “Uh, so Grantaire is getting into a fight with someone named Claquesous, trying to defend Enjolras’s honor. I just thought you should know.”

“Again?” Montparnasse kisses Enjolras on the head and coaxes him until he moves aside and lets him get up. “I’ll go stop him, I guess.”

“Shouldn’t I stop him?” asks Enjolras. “I mean, if it’s my fault they’re fighting, I feel like I have the responsibility to call it off.”

“But what if you get hurt?”

“They’re not going to hurt me.”

“But what if they hit you by mistake? No, let me. You stay here with Marius.”

“Are you sure?”

Montparnasse kisses him. “I’m sure.”

So Enjolras settles back onto the couch and beckons in Marius’s direction. “Come sit with me.”

Marius doesn’t really want to sit with him, especially since those scary people are still sitting around, looking a lot less inviting, but he does, and Enjolras leans up against him. 

“Are you having fun?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“Good, me too. So, I didn’t get to tell you earlier, but something else that I love about you is how smart you are. I think it’s amazing that you learned two languages at once. You’re so intelligent, and I think people forget that sometimes.”

He continues to ramble on. Marius pretends he’s listening, while subtly looking around the room to see if anyone will come and save him. It’s not that he doesn’t like hearing this, but he really wishes he was somewhere else right now.

A full fifteen minutes later, Grantaire and Montparnasse come back into the room. They both look annoyed, though their faces soften when they see Enjolras. Both of them converge on the couch and kiss him at once.

“You’re not a twerp,” says Grantaire. “Don’t listen to what anyone says.”

“Yeah,” says Montparnasse. “And you’re not a dweeb, either.”

Grantaire tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “Nor are you a dope.”

“Or a drip.”

Marius personally thinks that Enjolras  _ is  _ all of those things. He decides to change the subject.

“So, can we go home?”

“Is that okay with you, angel?” asks Grantaire. Enjolras nods.

“If we go home, I can plan the revolution.”

“You’re adorable.” Grantaire scoops him up and kisses him on the nose. Then, he looks at Marius with a hard-edged sort of flat-eye, and jerks his head. “C’mon.”

“Okay.”

Marius follows Grantaire out of the house, stopping only to say goodbye and thank-you to Floréal. He climbs into the backseat of the car, and Grantaire gets in next to him, though this time, he doesn’t sit nearly as close. 

“Where should we drop you off?” asks Montparnasse from the driver’s seat. Marius fights a little twinge of disappointment that they’re not going to continue the party with him. It’s not that he  _ wants _ to party with these three, not necessarily, but it would be nice to be asked.

“Drop me at Joly’s house,” he says. 

“All right.”

They drive on in silence for several minutes, and it’s beginning to get uncomfortable. By the time Montparnasse has pulled onto the freeway, Marius is fidgeting and tapping his foot impatiently inside his shoe. He doesn’t usually mind silence, but right now, it’s making him anxious. He has the idea that Grantaire and Montparnasse aren’t happy with him, too, and that’s not helping matters.

“So,” he says eventually, unsure of what to follow it with, but hoping someone else will jump in. Enjolras turns around to look at him.

“What’s up, Marius?”

“Well, you see…” Marius literally has no idea what to say. He clears his throat. “You know.”

“Oh.” Enjolras reaches out and grasps for his hand. “It’s okay, Marius. We’ll be home soon.”

Marius isn’t sure what Enjolras thinks is wrong with him, but he figures he better play it up. He leans back against the seat and closes his eyes. Grantaire pokes him in the side.

“If you’re going to throw up, can you do it out the window, please?”

“And can you make sure it doesn’t get on my car?” adds Montparnasse. 

Marius gives them both a thumbs-up, and settles down with his head on Grantaire’s lap. He doesn’t really want to be that close to him, but he feels like it might be a way to convince the others that he’s truly feeling poorly. And it seems to work. No one says another word until they’ve reached Joly’s house, and then Grantaire picks him up by the shoulders and sets him upright.

“Come on, man. Out you go.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” asks Enjolras. “I mean, if you’re not feeling well, maybe we could help.”

“I’ll get Joly to help,” says Marius. “Anyway, goodnight, you three.”

“Goodnight, Marius.”

Neither Grantaire nor Montparnasse say goodnight, but Marius doesn’t think he could have expected them to. He’s not really sure what’s got them so annoyed, but he’s sure they’ll come around. He’s done labors for them, after all.

He climbs out onto the sidewalk, and is expecting Montparnasse to drive away, but instead, he turns off the car and gets out. Somehow, the dim glow from the streetlights makes him look scarier than ever. Marius wonders if he’s about to get murdered.

“Uh, weren’t you going to go home?” he asks.

“I will. But first…”

Montparnasse reaches into his pocket. Marius nearly jumps out of his skin. “Please don’t kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” says Montparnasse. “I was just finding this.”

“Finding…?”

Montparnasse holds up an oddly familiar apple. “Recognize this?”

Marius knows it’s a lost cause, but he pats his pockets frantically anyway. It’s sort of impressive that Montparnasse managed to steal it without him noticing, but it’s also extremely annoying. Marius worked hard to get that apple, and he’ll be damned if he sees his efforts go to waste just because he played it a little Machiavellian tonight and pissed off Enjolras’s boyfriends.

“Listen,” he says. “Enjolras gave that to me. Are you really going to negate his freedom of expression here?”

“I don’t know,” says Montparnasse musingly. “After all, he didn’t really give it to you by choice, did he? You pressured him into it.”

“He can’t be pressured. He’s like some kind of marble statue or something.”

“That just shows how little you know him,” snaps Montparnasse. “Anyway, if you want this back, you’re going to apologize to him right now.”

“For what?”

“For taking advantage of how much he cares about you. Now go.”

Dragging his feet, Marius turns around and goes up to the passenger side window. He motions for Enjolras to roll it down, and he does.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Well, see…” Marius doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s probably going to end up hurting Enjolras’s feelings, and then Enjolras will throw a molotov cocktail at him, and everything will be terrible. “So, you know how I said we should reaffirm our friendship?”

A blush dusts Enjolras’s nose, and he gives a little smile. “Yes?”

“Well, uh… I didn’t mean it.”

Marius sort of wishes he had his phone out so he could capture the way Enjolras’s face falls. It’s spectacular, really, going from what-Marius-will-grudgingly-admit-is-adorable bliss to the absolute depths of despair. He takes his hand off the windowsill, as if needing to physically draw away.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I wanted to get that apple. I’m sorry.”

“So— so you don’t want to be friends?”

Marius knows he only has one option here. “No, of course I do. I definitely want to be friends with you. I just wanted that apple, too.”

“But you could have just asked,” says Enjolras, and he still sounds hurt. “I would have given it to you.”

And that’s the sad part, Marius thinks, he probably would have. There wasn’t any reason to do any of this, and now it’s all a big mess, and Marius has no idea how to fix it. Hesitantly, he reaches out to pat Enjolras on the head, but he shies away from the touch, and Marius is left holding his hand out with nowhere to put it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” pipes up Grantaire from the back seat. “Seriously, dude, what were you thinking?”

Marius scratches his head. “I kind of don’t know.”

“Well, you’re going to make it up to him. Do another labor for him, and maybe I won’t knock you on your ass.”

“It’s okay,” says Enjolras. “I mean, I already got one more labor than I asked for, so I would feel horrible about asking for another. Let’s just let bygones be bygones.”

“Are you sure?” asks Marius. “I mean, you wouldn’t really be asking for it.”

But Enjolras nods in determination. “It’s okay. Just go give Joly his apple.”

“What?” Marius blinks, confounded. “How did you know that the apple is for Joly?”

“Because he and ‘Ferre are the only ones who haven’t gotten a labor yet, and ‘Ferre doesn’t like apples.”

”Why doesn’t he like apples?”

”Because he likes Android.”

Marius shakes his head. “But how did you know it was a labor at all?”

Enjolras shrugs, looking, for just a second, horribly sad. “It seems important to you.”

Marius almost wants to hug him. “You’re important, too.”

“Thanks. But Joly wants his apple. I’ll talk to you later.”

It’s a clear goodbye, so Marius takes a step back, and almost runs into Montparnasse, who’s apparently been standing there listening to everything. His face is completely unreadable, though that’s normal for him.

“I’ll walk you up,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Marius begins, as he follows Montparnasse to the stairs. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I feel really bad.”

“Hmm.”

“Really, I’ll try to make it up to him somehow. I know he doesn’t want a labor, but maybe I can think of something else. I just hope he can forgive me.”

“He’ll probably have forgiven you by the time we get home,” says Montparnasse. “But you’re damn right you’re going to make this up to him, or you’ll be sorry.”

It’s times like these that Marius sees why Montparnasse has such a scary reputation. He seems capable of anything. Marius decides to grovel.

“I’m so sorry. I know I’m a dick. I don’t deserve Enjolras’s forgiveness, or yours, but I’m begging for it anyway, because I’m so sorry, and I would do anything to appease you. Please don’t be mad at me.”

“Ew.” Montparnasse steps away. “Listen, you can be sorry all you want, but until I see some actions from you, I’m not going to buy it.”

Of course not. That would be much too easy. This night really needs to come to an end. Steeling himself, Marius holds out his hand. “Can I have my apple back?”

“Fine.” Montparnasse hands it over. He doesn’t even fake-drop it like Grantaire probably would. “I hope that we’re on better terms next time we speak.”

“Yeah,” says Marius, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Well then, uh, goodnight.”

“Goodnight. Stay safe.”

It sounds like a threat. In fact, it probably is a threat. Marius hustles up the stairs to his apartment, prepared to double-check all the locks on the windows. 

“Marius!” shouts Joly, as soon as he opens the door. “What brings you here at this late hour?”

Without a word, Marius holds out the apple. It’s put him through enough, and he just wants to be rid of it. Joly gasps.

“My Green Delicious!” 

He takes it reverently and kisses it. It’s a very tender kiss. Marius feels like he’s intruding on something. 

“I’m glad you like it,” he says. “Uh, can I get a ride to Grantaire’s place so I can pick up my car?”

“Musichetta will drive you,” says Joly. “My leg is acting up. Besides, I want some time with this beauty here.”

He turns and goes into the apartment, and Marius, not knowing if it’s the right thing to do but unable to do anything else, follows.

“‘Chetta!” hollers Joly, after setting his apple on the table. “Marius needs a ride!”

“What?” Musichetta’s voice echoes from the bathroom. “Marius needs a ride?”

“I do,” says Marius. “To Grantaire’s apartment, please.”

“Okay,” calls Musichetta.

Marius doesn’t know if he should continue the conversation or not. It seems like it might be weird. On the other hand, maybe it would be normal. He doesn’t know. Fortunately, Musichetta comes out of the bathroom before he can finish deciding. 

“Let’s go,” she says.

As they go downstairs, Musichetta entertains Marius with a story of Bossuet’s latest escapades. Marius had no idea it was even possible to get one’s identity stolen by multiple people. Bossuet seems to be retaining a fairly cheerful point of view, though.

“He says it’s flattering that so many people want to be him,” says Musichetta, as she turns out of the parking lot. “I love him so much.”

Marius smiles and hums in recognition, but the guilt sitting in his stomach is abstracting him from paying very close attention. Musichetta seems to realize that something is wrong, because she turns her head halfway to look at him.

“What’s wrong?”

At first, Marius doesn’t want to tell her, but he knows it probably would be better to talk about it, so he does, explaining his acquisition of Joly’s apple. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt Enjolras’s feelings,” he says. “But now Grantaire and Montparnasse are mad at me.”

“Have you apologized?” asks Musichetta. 

“Of course. Montparnasse threatened me into it.”

Musichetta shakes her head. “Then you didn’t really apologize. It has to come from the heart.”

That’s sort of a bitter pill to swallow. Still, Marius knows that he needs to accept her words. He messed up, and now he needs to make things right, not just because he thinks Montparnasse might murder him otherwise, but also because it’s the right thing to do. 

“How do I do it?” he asks. “I want him to believe me.”

“He’s a little sweetheart,” says Musichetta. “He’ll believe you. I think the most important part is showing that you do care about him. He loves his friends more than life itself, and that includes you, so you’re going to want to make sure to show him that you love him, too.”

_ But I don’t love him _ , Marius thinks. He tries to think of a good way to phrase this. “I feel like he may have latched onto me in a way that I can’t reciprocate.”

“That’s okay. Just don’t hide the feelings that you do have.”

That really gets to the heart of the matter. Marius is quiet for the rest of the trip, trying to sort out what he feels. He’s not used to doing that, and it feels strange, but also long overdue.

“Thank you,” he says, once Musichetta pulls up to the curb in front of Grantaire’s apartment. “Not just for the ride. I mean, that too, but thank you for listening.”

“Of course.” Musichetta kisses him on the cheek. “Good luck. And don’t be too hard on yourself. You’re growing.”

Growth never felt so uncomfortable. That’s probably the point, though. Marius waves her off, then, after an internal pep-talk, goes upstairs to knock on the door.

“Hey,” he says, when Grantaire answers his knock. “I know you’re mad at me, but uh… I left my car here.”

“Then why don’t you get it?”

“I just… look, can I come in?”

Grantaire turns back over his shoulder. “Can Marius come in?”

The answers must be affirmative, because Grantaire turns back and nods. “Come on.”

Marius doesn’t bother taking his shoes off. He doesn’t want to do anything that might hinder a hasty exit. Nervously, trying not to show it, he goes over to the couch, where Montparnasse and Enjolras are cuddling together. 

“Hey,” he says. 

Montparnasse doesn’t say anything, but Enjolras gives him a little nod. “Hi, Marius.”

“Um…”

Marius doesn’t know how it start. He knows that he needs to follow Musichetta’s advice, but that’s so hard to do. If only he had some flashcards or something. He clears his throat and looks down at the floor, because he’s pretty sure he’d completely lose his train of thought if he looked into Enjolras’s eyes.

“So,” he says. “I know you’re upset, but will you please hear me out?”

“Okay.”

“No, please, I— wait. Okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll listen to you.”

Everything he does makes Marius feel worse about himself. “I fucked up,” he says. “I took advantage of you in order to serve my own agenda. You didn’t deserve that. It wasn’t fair, and I shouldn’t have acted so selfishly, especially because I’m supposed to be your friend.”

Enjolras makes a tiny sound, and Marius has to look up to gauge what his reaction is. He looks like he’s about to cry. 

“Friends don’t treat each other like that,” he says. 

“They sure don’t,” cuts in Montparnasse. “What’s wrong with you, Marius?”

Marius looks at the floor, feeling miserable. “I don’t know.”

“I get it,” says Enjolras, though he sounds like he really doesn’t. “But why would you pretend to like me all this time?”

_ Because of Cosette _ , Marius thinks, but even as he does, he knows it’s not completely true. He thinks of how cute Enjolras can be, and how helpful, and how he hadn’t joined in with the others to make fun of Marius during the fateful meeting that sparked all of this, and how he’d written out a study guide for him, and helped him in several of his labors without asking for a word of thanks. Now Marius thinks he might cry.

“I do like you,” he says. “Genuinely. I really do.”

“You do?”

“I do. You’re a good friend.”

Enjolras turns his face against Montparnasse’s chest. For a second, Marius thinks he’s offended past repair, but then he realizes that he’s trembling, obviously crying. Montparnasse kisses him and pets him and murmurs sweet things to him, and Grantaire comes over and starts to do the same. Marius wonders if he should leave.

“I’ll just,” he says, edging for the door. 

“Oh no you don’t.” Grantaire gets up again, grabs him by the scruff of the neck, and directs him to the couch. “You’re not going to run away. You’re going to stay here and fix this.”

Reluctantly, Marius sits back down. Much to his surprise, Enjolras climbs out of Montparnasse’s arms and comes over to him. 

“Can I?” he asks.

It would probably be really bad if Marius said no. Fortunately, he doesn’t want to. He nods, and Enjolras, with a watery, weak smile, gets cozy in his lap. He’s not heavy, and he’s warm, and when Marius wraps his arms around him, he practically melts against him. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“What? Thank me?”

“Yes. You didn’t have to come over, but you did. That took a lot of courage.”

“I did have to come over,” says Marius. “I left my car here.”

“But you didn’t have to come up.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

Grantaire and Montparnasse must see the tension leaving the room, because they both seem to relax. Grantaire sits down next to Marius and puts an arm around his shoulders.

“You’re welcome to stay the night.”

“I don’t know,” says Marius, but Enjolras looks up at him hopefully.

“You really can.”

And there’s no way Marius can say no to that, not after everything, so he gives him a little squeeze and nods.

“I’ll stay.”

And it’s really not bad. Montparnasse turns on some fashion show, and they all drift closer and closer together until they’re all nestled together in the middle of the couch. Enjolras goes to sleep in Marius’s arms, and he looks so comfortable that no one has the heart to move him, so they just turn the TV down a little and continue watching. By the time Marius drifts off, he’s completely content. Tonight may have been hard, but he did everything he needed to do, and that’s enough.


	12. Cerberferre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cerberus

The next week, Combeferre calls Marius up and invites him for coffee. He sounds nervous, and Marius thinks he know why.

“You want your labor,” he says, once he and Combeferre are tucked away in the corner of the coffee shop, hands curled around matching cappuccinos. Combeferre nods.

“I didn’t want to ask, but then I remembered our wonderful discussion on linguistics the other day, and I thought you might be more of a kindred spirit than you seem.”

“Wow, thanks.”

Combeferre nods calmly, and takes a sip of his cappuccino. “How do you feel about the underworld?”

“Like… hell?”

“Some call it that, yes.”

“Ah.” Marius thinks about it. “Well, I know I don’t want to go there.”

“Not even for a labor?”

Marius thinks he might throw up. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No, dear me, that would be highly unethical.”

“Then, what?”

Combeferre takes out his phone and clicks the home button to turn it on. His lockscreen is a picture of a cemetery that looks especially creepy, even by cemetery standards.

“This is The Underworld cemetery,” he says. “It’s called that because apparently, half the people who explore it end up going missing.”

“So…”

“I want to explore it.”

Marius scrubs a hand down his face, trying to compose himself. “Listen, Combeferre, you’re a great guy and all, but I don’t want to die. Isn’t there anything else I can do for you?”

“But this would be so good,” says Combeferre. “I mean, I can’t ask any of the others. All of them are scared except Jehan.”

“Then go with him.”

“I can’t. He’s too into it.”

Marius supposes he could see that. “All right,” he says. “I’ll go with you, but only if I can stay in the car.”

“But we need two people to get over the gate.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, it’s a very tall gate.”

What’s to be done about this? Marius doesn’t really believe in ghosts, not  _ really _ , but he doesn’t want to be disappeared on his very last labor. Somehow, that seems sort of anticlimactic. Still, it’s hard to say no to Combeferre, because he’s such a genuine, kind soul. Besides, Marius made his best friend cry last week, and he probably owes him one so that he won’t get punched, or smacked with a dictionary, or treated to another display of humiliation at an ABC meeting. 

“I’ll do it,” he says.

“Really?” Combeferre reaches across the table and takes Marius’s hand. “Thank you so much. You really are a good man.”

“Thank you. Uh, so are you.”

“I do try,” says Combeferre. “Now, let’s work out the details here…”

\--

That night, Marius drives over to Combeferre’s apartment, dressed in the Crime Outfit that he’d worn to steal Bertrand. He figures trespassing in a potentially-haunted cemetery is a good enough occasion to bring it out. He’d considered bringing the gun that Javert had given him awhile back, too, but eventually, he’d decided against it. It probably wouldn’t be very good against ghosts, anyway.

Combeferre insists on inviting him in to pregame, and though Marius has no idea why they would want to pregame this particular activity, he goes along with it. Combeferre, and more importantly, Enjolras, can be very persuasive. 

“It’ll give you courage,” says Enjolras, holding out a mug full of some unidentified substance. “Just have some.”

“But what is it?”

“My special courage potion.”

Marius had been expecting vodka, or maybe brandy, but his first sip proves the drink to be much worse than that. He nearly drops the cup.

“Enjolras, is this carbonated  _ milk _ ?”

“Yes. It also has a raw egg in it.”

Marius sets the mug on the counter. He doesn’t think he can drink any more. “Do you seriously drink this every time you need courage?”

“Not every time. But sometimes.”

This really explains a lot about him. Marius looks at Combeferre, who’s swilling down the last dregs of his concoction.

“Are you ready to go?”

“I am.”

Combeferre goes over to Enjolras and holds him by the shoulders. He looks deeply into his eyes, and a sort of understanding passes between them, Marius can tell. Neither of them says a word, but then they’re hugging, and Marius feels like he’s intruding on a capital-M Moment.

“Remember Protocol C,” says Combeferre. “And if I don’t return…”

“I know.” Enjolras steps back from the hug, and takes his hand. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

“No. It’s not your thing. You stay here, and you can make us coffee when we come back.”

“I can do that.” Enjolras stretches up and kisses Combeferre on the cheek. Then, he comes over to Marius and kisses his cheek, too. “Be safe.”

“We’ll try.”

Marius doesn’t want to leave. He’d much rather stay here in this nice, cozy, if somewhat cluttered apartment and not deal with any ghosts or dead people. He would even drink more Courage Potion if it meant he didn’t have to leave. Still, there’s nothing he can do, so he takes a deep breath and follows Combeferre down to the car. 

After a long and uncomfortably silent car ride, Marius is almost relieved to disembark at the cemetery. At least he won’t have to worry if his breathing is too loud this way. Then again, though, he’s here, and that’s worse. He follows Combeferre to the gate, which is indeed very tall.

“How are we going to get over this?” he asks. “Shouldn’t we just go home?”

Combeferre laughs, as if this isn’t a perfectly reasonable question. “I will pick you up. You will climb over the gate, and unlock it for me. Then we will both be inside.”

Right, inside. The place where Marius absolutely doesn’t want to be. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

“Don’t be silly,” says Combeferre. “Now, come over here so I can lift you.”

Very unwillingly, Marius goes over to the gate, and Combeferre, without a word of warning, hoists him up. He’s very strong. Marius has no idea how this nerdy man became a powerlifter, but he can’t do anything about it now. 

“Ready?” says Combeferre. “Can I let go?”

“Wait, no!”

Marius struggles to grab onto the top of the gate, but it’s still really high up, and his muscles are too weak to pull himself up, so he’s left hanging, quite literally, when Combeferre feels his weight lift and steps away. He struggles for what feels like several minutes before finally getting himself to the top of the gate, using the filigree as footholds.

“Are you alright up there?” calls Combeferre. Marius gives him a thumbs-up, but quickly puts his hand down to grasp the gate again. The ground is looking very far away. 

“I’m good,” he calls. “”I just have to figure out how to get down.”

“Just jump. It’s not that high. There’s only a 40% chance that you’ll be injured.”

That’s not encouraging. Marius doesn’t think he’ll accept anything above 0%. Gingerly, he sets about searching for the filigree footholds, and eventually, he gets to a level where he feels more comfortable jumping.

“I made it,” he says.

“Excellent,” says Combeferre. “Please let me in.”

Marius fiddles with the gate until he somehow manages to open it, and Combeferre strolls on through as if he does stuff like this every day. Maybe he does. 

“Let’s go,” he says. “We have a lot to see.”

Marius had been worried about making conversation the whole time, thinking it might be awkward, but fortunately, every time he tries to say anything, Combeferre shushes him. 

“We have to be quiet,” he whispers. “Ghosts can hear things, you know. We want to catch them in their natural habitat.”

“Do we?”

“That’s why we’re here. Now come on.”

Glumly, Marius follows him into the cemetery proper. He’s probably about to be possessed or something, and then Combeferre will have to throw holy water on him, and it’ll be a huge hassle. He wishes he’d brought his rosary after all. 

“All right,” whispers Combeferre. “Let’s stay behind this tombstone for awhile. I think this might be a prime spot for ghosts.”

He hunkers down on the sprinkler-wet grass and pulls out night-vision goggles and a camera. Since he seems to be pretty focused on what he’s doing, Marius doesn’t really want to disturb him. Instead, he decides to keep watch, just in case anyone, ghost or otherwise, comes along to bother them. 

It’s a pretty cemetery, he thinks, if cemeteries can indeed be called pretty. The grounds are neatly kept, and most of the tombstones are in good shape, although a lot of the older ones are crumbling. If it weren’t so creepy, it might even be a nice place to come and eat lunch on a sunny afternoon. It  _ is _ creepy, though, and Marius really doesn’t want to be here.

“When do ghosts typically come out?” he asks.

“Oh, whenever they want.” Combeferre reaches into his bag and takes out a second pair of night-vision goggles. “Here you go. You can look, too.”

“But I don’t…”

“Ah, yes. These may not fit you. They’re Enjolras’s, and his head is significantly smaller than yours.”

Someday, Marius wants to have the kind of relationship where he and his best friend can wear matching night-vision goggles. He doesn’t think it will happen, though. Courfeyrac would never be caught dead in these things, and besides, they would mess up his hair. So Marius takes the goggles and, after adjusting them a bit, puts them on. He may as well, he thinks. This may be his only chance to match with someone.

At first, it’s weird being able to see so well in the dark. Marius doesn’t know what he’ll do if a ghost actually decides to show up, because he really doesn’t want to see that. It somehow makes everything more real. 

Once he starts to get used to it, though, it’s sort of cool. He feels like some kind of spy. He takes out the little notebook and pen that he always carries with him, and starts to diagram a sentence, just to fit in with Combeferre, who is scribbling away in a notebook of his own. 

“I see one,” says Combeferre now, very casually, all things considered. Marius tries to laugh.

“Funny.”

“No, really,” says Combeferre. “Don’t you see someone?”

Although he really doesn’t want to, Marius looks where Combeferre is pointing. Sure enough, there’s a figure, set darkly against the night, and it seems to be coming closer. Desperately, Marius starts to look around for a place to hide.

“Let’s go,” he says. “Maybe if we run quickly enough, it won’t catch us.”

“But why would we run? This is our chance to observe it!”

“But why do we want to? Let’s just go.”

“This is my labor,” says Combeferre, with all the annoyingly patient recalcitrance that would usually accompany a toddler’s demand for cookies. “You can tap out, but then you have to do me another one.”

Marius fidgets in place. He really doesn’t know what to do. Although he wants to finish Combeferre’s labor, he doesn’t want to meet a ghost at close quarters (or at any quarters at all, really), and this is looking more and more dangerous by the minute. 

“What do I do,” he says aloud. Combeferre doesn’t even turn towards him to reply.

“Do whatever your heart tells you. But quietly. I’m observing.”

Maybe if he stays very still and quiet, the ghost won’t see him. It’s getting too close for him to move by this point, so probably the best option would be to camouflage himself and wait for it all to pass. 

Still, it really is getting close. Marius doesn’t know what he’s going to do if it comes all the way over.

“Let’s get a bit closer,” says Combeferre now. Marius wants to slap him.

“Are you serious? No!”

“Come on.”

There’s no telling what he might do if his request is refused, so unhappily, Marius creeps behind him as they advance. 

Nothing seems to happen for a minute. Then, the figure stops still, and turns to look straight into Marius’s soul. Too paralyzed to move, Marius can only watch as the figure starts towards him. A hot flash of fear runs through him, and he’s shaking, and his ears are ringing, and then there’s nothing between him and the ground.

“Marius!” calls Combeferre, but Marius can barely hear him, let alone think of a way to respond.

He lets go the tenuous hold to reality that he’d struggled to grasp onto, the thread connecting his brain to the outside, and allows himself to drown in the black. The last thing he notices as the curtains of his consciousness close is shouting, lights, and the vague impression of a lobster.

—

“He’s awake.”

Marius struggles to follow the golden strand of voice through the realms of unconsciousness, until he can open his eyes and make his reappearance in the waking world. He’s lying on a sofa, he sees, and Enjolras is bending over him.

“You were out for awhile,” he says. “How do you feel?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Good. Jehan wants to apologize to you.”

“What? Jehan?”

“Yes,” comes the sheepish voice, and Jehan shuffles over to the couch. “I apologize, Marius. I was out walking my lobster, and I thought I would come and greet my fellow denizen of the night. I didn’t realize it would put you afright.”

“It’s okay,” says Marius. “Why were you walking your lobster?”

“So he can bask in the fresh air. He quite needs it.”

“His name is Nerval,” puts in Enjolras. “He’s very dignified.”

“Marius,” says Combeferre, coming over to the couch with a mug in hand. “I want to apologize, too. Ghost-hunting isn’t for everyone, and it was thoughtless of me to ask it of you. Consider this labor paid in full.”

Marius doesn’t even register the words for a second. But then, he sits up, all in a twist. “I’m done,” he says, and then, looking up in triumph, “I’m  _ done _ .”

“With what?” asks Combeferre. Marius jostles his arm.

“The labors. I did one for all of Cosette’s best friends. I’m done!”

There’s a moment of silence. Then, Enjolras speaks, hesitantly, but with the air of a man who knows exactly what answer he’s going to get.

“So, these labors… you did them to impress Cosette?”

“No, it’s, well…”

“Wait a second,” says Jehan. “I have to get Feuilly on speakerphone. They’ll want to hear the explanation for this, too.”

“What a good idea.” Enjolras pulls out his phone and starts typing furiously. “I have to tell Courfeyrac to come over.”

“In fact,” says Combeferre. “Why don’t we invite everyone? I’m sure we’d all like to hear this.”

“You don’t have to,” Marius protests, but it’s too late. Somehow, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Jehan manage to get everyone together, and before too long, they’re all crowded in Combeferre and Enjolras’s apartment, waiting with bated breath to hear Marius’s explanation.

“Can we guess?” asks Bahorel. “Hey, Grantaire, let’s guess.”

Grantaire gives Marius a knowing look and doesn’t say anything. Marius can’t help but feel a little more warmly towards him. Just a little.

“So,” says Eponine. “Tell us, please. Why did you do these labors?”

Marius is opening up his mouth to reply, when the door opens, and Cosette walks in. 

“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “What did I miss?”

Marius thinks his heart is actually going to stop beating, if it hasn’t already. There’s no way he can confess his motives now. But Cosette is sinking down on the floor beside Enjolras, and looking at him, oh God, she’s  _ looking _ at him, and he doesn’t know if he wants to run away, or stay in her line of sight forever. 

“I, I,” he babbles.

Enjolras looks at him, then his face shifts into a mask of complete determination. “Hey, Cosette,” he says. “Can I talk to you? In there?”

“Well, sure,” says Cosette. “Come on.”

Enjolras and Cosette go into the bedroom. Marius doesn’t know what excuse Enjolras is going to use, but he trusts him not to tell Cosette about his feelings for her. That would be beyond low. 

“Okay,” he says, now that he’s able to talk normally again. “The reason I did these labors was because I want to date Cosette, and I didn’t want you guys to hate me.”

“Hate you?” Courfeyrac laughs aloud. “Dude, we  _ love _ you. You’re our friend.”

“But the capitalism thing…”

“The what?”

Marius decides not to push his luck. Instead, he looks at Combeferre. “You can get Enjolras and Cosette now.”

Combeferre claps him on the shoulder before getting up and going into the bedroom. In a second, all three of them come out, and resume their former positions.

“What’s going on?” asks Cosette. 

Marius looks into her beautiful eyes, and he almost falters, but with a quick mental turnabout, he rallies. It’s time now. This is the moment he was born for.

“Cosette,” he says. “I love you.”

There’s a muffled “aww” and a few murmurs in the background, but Marius doesn’t pay any attention. He’s focused completely on Cosette, laser-pointed into her perfect, gorgeous face. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she doesn’t say it back, or if she does.

Cosette bites her lip and looks down. She’s smiling a lovely smile that makes Marius’s heart flutter.

“That’s so sweet,” she says. “Let’s go on a date.”

And with that, Marius faints again.

—

Epilogue

—

“Do you really think it’s okay to follow Marius on his date?” asks Enjolras, though he’s already strapping his seatbelt. Courfeyrac cuffs him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s all for the greater good.”

This seems to be convincing to Enjolras, because he doesn’t say anything else about it. Instead, he starts talking about a recent news article, pouring all his passion and indignation onto Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

“I really think it’s illustrative of a wider problem,” he’s saying, as Courfeyrac pulls up to the restaurant. 

“You’re right,” says Combeferre. “Let’s continue talking about it later. For now, though, let’s go in. I think the others are waiting.”

Courfeyrac leads them inside. They’re not sitting with the others; instead, everyone is placed around the restaurant in small groups. They’d tried to circle around Marius and Cosette’s table so they could watch them from every direction, but that hadn’t really worked out. However, Courfeyrac is pleased to note that he has a very good view from where he’s sitting.

“Do you want some wine?” asks Combeferre, after pulling out Enjolras’s chair for him and helping him settle in. Enjolras considers it.

“Okay. It’s a special occasion, you know?”

“Of course. What do you want? Red?”

“You know me so well.”

“They’re ordering,” says Courfeyrac. “I think Cosette is ordering for both of them.”

“She does that for me, too,” says Enjolras. “She’s really good with people who have social anxiety.”

“I wonder what they got.” Combeferre cranes his neck, as if trying to figure it out. “I bet Marius ordered something really embarrassing to eat, and he’ll make a huge mess.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “He probably got soup.”

“Or spaghetti.”

“Or crab.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” says Enjolras. “Besides, Cosette doesn’t really care about being messy. Our dad is the messiest eater in the world, so she’s used to it.”

“You’re so optimistic.” Courfeyrac smiles at him, feeling a tug of love in his heart. “I’m glad you’re here to temper our well-intentioned mocking.”

“It’s what I do.”

“Here’s your wine,” says their server, coming back with a bottle and three glasses. “Are you ready to order?”

“Sure,” says Courfeyrac, though he doesn’t know if Combeferre and Enjolras are. “I’ll have the shrimp scampi, please, and could I have some water as well?”

“We’ll both have the nicoise salad,” says Combeferre, who’s used to ordering for himself and Enjolras. “Also, can we have some water, too?”

Their server notes everything, and goes back to the kitchen to get their orders started. Courfeyrac sits up straight to see what Marius and Cosette are up to.

“They’re on their phones,” he reports. “That’s not good.”

“We have to make something happen that will get them talking,” says Combeferre. “Courfeyrac, do a striptease.”

“Why me? Enjolras is prettier.”

“But he won’t do it.”

“I know,” says Enjolras. “Let’s go over there and say hi.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “No, my little dumpling. That would make things even worse.”

“How?”

“Yeah,” says Combeferre. “I mean, it would give them something to talk about.”

“Because then we would be taking away from the ambience. They can’t know we’re here. No, I know. We’ll all text him memes. Then he can show Cosette the memes.”

“I don’t think he knows what a meme is,” says Combeferre. 

“Then, cute puppy pictures. Or cats. Enjolras, is Cosette a cat person or a dog person?”

“Both.”

“Perfect. Start googling, everyone.”

Much to Courfeyrac’s relief, the strategy works, and Marius shows Cosette the pictures they all text him. It seems to break the ice, because they start talking after that. 

“I wonder what they’re saying,” says Courfeyrac. “What I wouldn’t give to be hiding under their table right now!”

Combeferre scoffs. “What, would you eat the scraps that fall down?” 

“I mean, free food, right?”

“You’re gross.”

“Oh my goodness,” says Enjolras. “Look, Marius is reaching across the table.”

“But Cosette’s hands are in her lap,” says Courfeyrac, feeling as if he’s watching a dumpster catch on fire. “Marius, what are you doing?”

“He picked up his wine in both hands,” says Combeferre. “Okay, that was a good-ish save.”

“He’s going to get drunk,” says Enjolras despairingly. “He’s even more of a lightweight than I am.”

Courfeyrac imagines it. He shudders. “We’re going to have to do something.”

“But what?”

All three of them sit in silence for at least five minutes, trying to think of options. Courfeyrac can’t come up with any, and apparently, Combeferre and Enjolras can’t either. Eventually, Combeferre sighs and takes his glasses off to polish them.

“I think we’re going to have to go with Enjolras’s plan after all. We’re going to have to go over there.”

“It can’t hurt,” says Enjolras. “I mean, look at them. They’re on their phones again.”

Courfeyrac really hadn’t wanted it to come to this, but he doesn’t think he has any other options. He doesn’t want Marius to get drunk, and he doesn’t want the date to be a disaster. So, a little defeatedly, he bows his head.

“Okay. Who’s going over there?”

“I will,” says Enjolras. “That way, I can just be pretending to say hi to Cosette.”

Although Courfeyrac would rather be the one to go over, he has to admit that Enjolras has a point. It would be harder to explain if he or Combeferre went over there. 

“Go ahead, then,” he says. “But don’t make it weird.”

“I won’t make it weird!”

“No, really,” says Combeferre. “Don’t mention the date. Don’t mention that we’re all here. Don’t mention anything, really. Just provide something to talk about.”

Now Enjolras looks a little less sure of himself. He starts to twirl a lock of hair around one finger. “What if they ask?”

“Lie.”

“I’m not good at lying, though.”

This will probably end really badly. Courfeyrac decides not to think about it. “Go ahead,” he says heartily. “You’ll figure something out.”

Enjolras gets up. He clasps his phone in his hand as if hoping it will save him. “Text me some advice.”

“Okay,” says Courfeyrac. “Now, go. The longer they’re on their phones, the quicker the date will go downhill.”

Enjolras makes his way over to the table. Courfeyrac watches him go. “We really need to take him shopping,” he says. “The rolled-up-jeans-and-tennis-shoes look is okay for going to lecture, but we have to find him some fancier clothes that actually fit.”

“I think he’s cute,” says Combeferre. “He looks like a baby when he wears those big suits.”

“Right, that’s exactly what we don’t want.”

“Okay, he’s talking to them,” says Combeferre. “Look, Cosette looks happy to see him.”

“Marius doesn’t.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre watch with bated breath as Enjolras continues to talk to Marius and Cosette. It’s impossible to tell what he’s saying, but he must be saying a lot of it, whatever it is. The conversation seems to be lasting for quite awhile.

“Come on,” says Courfeyrac. “Come back here. Don’t stay there too long.”

“He’s having fun,” says Combeferre in dismay. “Sweetie, you’re not here to have fun. Oh my God.”

“Is Cosette asking him if he wants to sit there?” Courfeyrac wants to know. “Because that’s what it looks like.”

Whatever it was, it must not be enough to overrule social niceties. Enjolras says his goodbyes and comes back to the table. 

“They wanted me to stay there,” he says, sure enough. “Or, well, Cosette did. I don’t think Marius did. But hopefully I gave them enough to talk about.”

“What did you do?” asks Courfeyrac with slight horror, unsure if he even wants to hear the answer or not. He’s picturing Enjolras standing by the table spouting facts about history. 

“I just told them some gossip,” says Enjolras. “It’ll be easy to talk about it for awhile.”

How intriguing. “What gossip?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“But you’ll tell them?”

“It was necessary.”

“Fine, Whatever. Come and sit down and tell us how it went.”

Enjolras does. He explains how awkward Marius is, and how nervous, and how neither one of them seem to be having a very good time. 

“I almost wanted to stay there with them,” he says. “But I know that’s not proper.”

Somehow, something in what he says gives Courfeyrac an inkling of an idea. He taps his fingers on the table, and is about to speak, when their food comes, and they’re all distracted by eating. 

“This is amazing,” he says. “I feel bad for you two, eating health food. Do you want to try this?”

Enjolras is already holding out his fork. “Maybe just a little bit.”

They chat about menial things as they eat, but once they’re done, Courfeyrac returns to the plan, which has been marinating in the back of his head. 

“So,” he says. “What if we all get Marius and Cosette to come back with us?”

“With all of us?” Combeferre shakes his head. “That doesn’t sound much like a date.”

“It could be a group date. Maybe that would take some of the pressure off and allow Marius to relax.”

“I think it’s kind of a good idea,” says Enjolras. “Look at them now. The only reason they’re not on their phones is because they’re eating.”

“They’re obviously trying to make the eating part of the meal last as long as possible,” agrees Combeferre.

Courfeyrac puts both fists on the table, though he doesn’t slam them in the dramatic way that he wants. “This is why my plan is the best. Text everyone.”

Fortunately, everyone is on high alert, and they all respond back quickly. Most of them are in favor of having an after-dinner hangout at someone’s place, although Bahorel helpfully points out that it would interfere with their ability to “get it on,” should they so desire to do so. 

“I don’t think that’s an issue,” says Eponine. “They don’t look like they want to bone.”

And so, it’s decided. Enjolras is nominated to be the spokesman to broach the idea to Marius and Cosette, and he goes to the table, with his clenched hands betraying his anxiety.

“I hope he’ll be okay,” says Courfeyrac. “What if Marius gets mad at him?”

“He’ll be fine. I just hope he’s persuasive.”

They don’t have to wait and wonder for too long. After a little while, Enjolras comes back up to the table, and sits down. 

“They’re okay with it,” he says.

Courfeyrac wipes an imaginary bead of sweat off his forehead. “That’s a relief. All right, I’ll text the group. Let’s get this show on the road.”

—

As it turns out, Marius has much more social grace when surrounded by friends in Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s apartment. He even tells a joke. Courfeyrac doesn’t try very hard not to be smug about his choice to bring the party home. 

“I knew it was the right thing to do,” he says. Combeferre shoves him. 

“Shut up.”

Courfeyrac grins and returns to his homemade cocktail. He’s allowed to rest on his laurels a little bit. 

Eventually, everyone ends up curled in a big puppy pile. Courfeyrac is happy to note that Cosette is spooning Marius. Maybe things will be a little bit different in the relationship department now. He adjusts himself under Feuilly’s arm, getting cozy, because he knows he’s probably going to end up sleeping here. 

So, he thinks. Marius might not be the most charming guy in the world, but it seems he did something right here. Sure, it was long and involved and twelve times harder than it needed to be, but it was sweet. If Cosette chooses to accept his love, she’ll be a lucky woman. 

“Hey Marius,” he says. Marius looks at him, trepidation in his eyes.

“What?”

“I’m proud of you.”

Marius relaxes visibly. “Thanks,” he says.

“I mean it. We love you.”

“We do,” says Enjolras. “We love you so much, Marius.”

“I, uh.” Marius clears his throat. “I love you all too.”

Courfeyrac cheers. He can’t  _ not _ , not when Marius is finally opening up and allowing himself to feel actual, human emotions. It’s a special moment, and it deserves to be celebrated. 

“Next, we’ll all have to do labors for you,” he says jokingly, but Enjolras catches onto his his words.

“Yes,” he says very seriously. “I’ll make a spreadsheet.”

Marius twists in Cosette’s embrace so he can reach out a hand and pat him. This, more than anything, Courfeyrac thinks, shows how much Marius has grown. He really is proud of him.

“You’ve done good,” he says.

Marius smiles, satisfied with himself and his labors, and seeing it, Courfeyrac can’t help but smile, too. This has been a journey for all of them, but it’s led up to this moment, and that’s a beautiful thing. Good for Marius, Courfeyrac thinks. 

Good for Marius.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr


End file.
